


Knights of Summer

by littlenoona



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Platonic Romance, Self-Esteem, Self-Esteem Issues, tags to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 77,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlenoona/pseuds/littlenoona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because it's always summer in the songs. Modern AU.</p><p>(or the fic where the children of summer find themselves at summer camp.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Renly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer's finally here, and that means that a fresh batch of angst-filled, hormonal teenagers will be coming through Highgarden's gates soon. Renly and the rest of the staff prepare for their arrival, and he finds himself mildly enamoured by the person he least expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything but the clothes on my back and all original content. Enjoy.

Renly's morning starts with Robert pounding down his door and grunting something about “getting up for some grub.” It’s not really different than any other day, except that today is the day that the campers, the children of Los Angeles’ rich and famous (and then some, rumor has it), arrive and everything has to be just perfect. (Well, according to Stannis, really. Renly really couldn't care less and he's pretty sure the kids don't care either.) Renly groans and rolls over, rubbing his face in his blue pillow. He doesn’t want to get up, but manages to pull himself out of bed about fifteen minutes later regardless. Robert’s pretty strict about breakfast and most meals in general because of their boss, their older brother - prompt, uptight Stannis Baratheon.

As he showers, he wonders how they’re all brothers (Robert is the drunken fool who doesn’t take responsibility for anything, Stannis is the narrow minded conservative shmuck, and then there’s Renly, who has made it his goal in life to be neither of them, but rather their exact opposite). Renly starts to dress as Robert hollers up the stairs again, huffing and puffing as his footsteps thud down the old wooden steps. Jon knocks lightly on his door and Renly huffs, tugging on some shorts. These fit him, like, a week ago, and he's pretty sure he can't eat enough in a week to just randomly switch sizes. He wonders if Cersei shrunk his clothes in the wash, because his shirts are just a little bit tighter too.

He scowls at his reflection in the mirror.

“Are you coming to eat or what?”

“In a minute!” Renly hollers, falling on the bed as he gets them past his hips. Maybe he should start working out again. He digs through the wooden dresser, trying to find a shirt. He settles on a white t-shirt and pulls it over his head, the lanyard with his awkward face and ID number following suit. (In his defense, he didn’t know why he needed an ID in the first place and didn’t like having his picture taken by Stannis’ mistress/secretary, with her creepy face and long nails. It freaked him out, so he looked like he was in need for some serious fiber in his picture.) He pulls some shoes on and walks downstairs.

Cersei and Jaime aren’t down there yet and Renly wonders why everyone was so adamant on rushing him when the double mint twins had yet to grace them all with their presence. He could tolerate Jaime some days—sometimes he could be a decent human being (but only sometimes - on average, maybe once or twice every two weeks). Cersei, on the other hand, was a cold, cruel, selfish woman who stepped on everyone and everything she could to get to the top. (Including, but not limited to, Robert, the middle Baratheon brother. It’s complicated.)

Robb rubs his stubbly face, yawning as he sits down across from Renly, propping his head up with a pale fist. It’s like the Starks are physically incapable of tanning or anything at all. Renly remembers summers spent with them at the beach, how Sansa spent hours sitting in the sun to no avail and how Robb fainted at the slightest hint of sunburn. (Except for Jon, who just burns in the sun despite how many bottles of sunscreen he lathers on his pasty skin. It doesn’t make much of a difference. Jon’s girlfriend (or something), Ygritte, burns in the sun too. It’s kind of funny.) Jon and Renly talk for a few minutes. Robb makes the occasional sleepy quip, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  
  
The campers will be arriving at noon, which leaves them little less than five hours to get everything ready. It’s enough time, Renly thinks, but there are still little details that need to be settled, like cabin assignments and the food situation - the trucks still aren't here and Renly called them at least four times yesterday to remind them to be here early enough so that they wouldn't be in the way when the campers finally showed up - and leaky pipes and other trifles that will hopefully be resolved before they all arrive.

But they probably won’t be, because Renly and Robb have to do everything themselves. Jon has become moderately useless because Ygritte is working in the infirmary this summer and he spends most, if not all his time, drooling after her with those lovelorn puppy eyes.

Oh, well.

Renly's belly rumbles when he smells eggs and bacon sizzling in the kitchen, hunger gnawing away at him as he taps his feet impatiently. Cersei and Jaime walk into the room, giggling and biting their lips. (Renly can’t stand them sometimes, especially Cersei.) Cersei sits next to Renly and Jaime sits next to Robb, flicking some dirty blonde hair out of his face—he spends more time on his hair than any girl Renly knows (and granted, he doesn’t know very many girls, but still). The air in the room is happy and light, and everyone sits up and cheers when Robert finally comes in, yelling, “Who’s hungry?” (Everyone but Cersei, that is.)

Cersei doesn’t like Robert very much. It’s complicated, but it’s not really like Cersei can be blamed, considering everything that’s happened. Then again, she kind of caused the problem in the first place. It’s just really complicated and it makes Renly kind of happy that he’s never had that kind of trouble, but granted he's never been married and he isn't really the marriage type so he doesn't think that he'll ever face that kind of trouble.

Breakfast goes rather smoothly - Cersei only threatened to kill Robert with her fork once, after all - when Melisandre shows up. It's during the second round of pancakes—chocolate chip and blueberries and Renly could die, it’s so delicious—effectively sucking the cheerful air out the room. (Granted, Robert's rich food could very well be the reason why his shirts are just a little tighter and maybe his shorts don't fit him the way they used to, but you only live once, so you might as well eat what you want.) Melisandre is Stannis’ assistant-mistress-secretary, an odd woman who always makes Renly feel ill-at-ease and uncomfortable for reasons he’s never been able to understand, and she's been Stannis' secretary for a very long time. She takes her sunglasses off and tucks them inside her red bag. Everything about her is red from head to toe—her hair, her eyebrows, her lipstick, the lanyard hanging from her neck, her dress, shoes, sunglasses—everything. Always. She’s pale, unnaturally so, but the rest of her is decked out in every shade of red under the sun.

She never repeats an outfit, not for as long as Renly’s known her—and it’s been almost six years.

Melisandre purses her lips as she starts to speak. The counselors exchange awkward looks. The secretary hardly ever comes down here, and when she does, she's usually with Stannis.

“Mr. Baratheon will not be able to greet the campers today. He is currently very ill.” Everyone shares shifty glances, sparing one or two at Melisandre. “He has asked me to come here to inform Renly that he is to stand in his place this afternoon to greet them.”

He’s about to protest—he doesn’t want to be the center of attention, never—but refrains, and instead simpers and laughs awkwardly. Melisandre is scary and he really doesn’t want to piss her off by saying no, even though public speaking makes him uncomfortable and always has. This is not good. Renly Baratheon is scared of a scrawny, creepy albeit it very weak looking woman and it makes him seriously reevaluate his life for a few seconds. This is ridiculous. But of course Renly won’t say anything and he’ll just smile and nod because he’s Renly and that’s what he does—he just goes along with things and never gets upset.

At least, not in public.

“I guess I can do it,” he says softly, swallowing his food thickly. She nods slightly, the corners of her red lips lifting infinitesimally in what Renly has learned is her smile.

“I’ll tell Mr. Baratheon. Carry on.”

Her stiletto heels click against the floor as she exits, closing the screen door behind her quietly. There’s a collective sigh of relief, the calm air slowly seeping into the room in Melisandre’s absence. They eat quietly, knives and forks scraping against the plates as they break off into their own little separate conversations. Cersei wipes her red mouth with a napkin and sets it down, saying something about how she needs to go inspect the cabins.

“Wanna come with me Jaime?” she asks, smiling softly at him as they leave.

Everyone else clears off the table. Jon and Robert wash the dishes. Robb and Renly go to the lobby, sitting down at their respective desks. Stannis doesn’t like computers but still wants all paperwork to be typed—on typewriters, no less—so his desk is a cluttered mess of papers and notes and just everything else he needs. Sometimes Renly thinks that Stannis thrives on the misery of others, that somehow, Stannis is unable to function properly knowing that someone he knows isn’t as miserable and frustrated with life as he is.

Renly doesn’t really put it past him.

He takes the time to go write his little speech to greet the campers because Stannis is ill—rather mysteriously so, since Stannis prides himself on his impeccable health, runs three miles every morning, eats only fruits and vegetables, and doesn't drink or smoke (and makes it a point to be pretentious about his health to others who really don't care, i.e., Renly)—while Robb does paperwork and makes up lists that have to be hung on the cabin doors. Robert leaves early to get lunch ready for everyone and Jon was stocking up the infirmary.

Renly thought he was just flirting with Ygritte, the new nurse Stannis hired after last year’s incident with Osha. He shudders a little. (It's always the ones we least suspect.) Ygritte’s pretty and young and likes to smile, and she seems to rile Jon up, which isn’t so bad. Jon Snow is so somber and demure that it’s rare to see him smile or laugh or really do much of anything—but with Ygritte it’s like he’s this whole other person, vibrant and energetic, confident even. Renly’s happy for him. Hopefully, Jon doesn’t screw it up. (Which, unfortunately, the poor bastard—no pun intended—has a habit of doing from time to time, and it's bound to happen sometime, since he's kind of overdue for a mishap.)

Around eleven, Jon comes back, and about a half hour later, they all take their leave. They're going to be late if they don't get going, after all. Renly finds himself whistling as he taps the clipboard against his hand, walking along the trail with Jon and Robb. Cersei and Jaime are curiously missing, but that’s nothing new. They’ll show up eventually and no one will question it because it’s Cersei and Jaime Lannnister and all the staff just had to accept everything they did blindly. The sun is shining brightly today, playing hide-and-go-seek with the puffy white clouds above. He can hear them before he actually sees them, chattering and buzzing away like kids their age were prone to do.

It’s going to be a good day, he muses, laughing at Robb’s joke.

Highgarden is one of Renly's favorite places in the whole world, mostly because it's so beautiful and some of his best friends are here, like Robb and Jon. This summer feels like it's going to be a good one. (If only he knew.) He smiles fondly as he walks in with the two brothers, Robert’s boisterous laughter catching his attention. He sees Cersei sitting on the small stage with Jaime, Robert sitting next to her in his greasy white shirt and dirty black pants. He didn't freshen up because Stannis wasn't there. Had Stannis been there, Robert would have looked like any other normally decent person, but alas. Renly sighs. Jaime looks like he either wants to be sick or kill Robert or both—you can’t ever tell with Jaime. Cersei has her blonde hair braided down her back and flips it over her shoulder as she rolls her green eyes at Robert. She wipes at the corner of her red lips, looking at Robb with bedroom eyes. Renly and Jon exchange a look. (She totally wants Robb, but Robb isn't really into her and he likes someone else anyway.) Jon and Robb take a seat next to Jaime, clearing their throats a little. This is going to be a mildly awkward summer. Ygritte and Shae come in through one of the side doors. Ygritte sends an apologetic smile to Renly and Shae sits down without saying hi or anything to anyone. (They’re kind of late.)

Jon blushes when Ygritte stands next to him, and Renly doesn't miss how her fingers play with his.

_To be young and in love._

Renly sighs as he approaches the microphone, looking around the room at the teenagers before he starts speaking. Arya and Sansa, Jon and Robb’s sisters, sit at a table with a girl who looks like Garlan’s - his roommate from college - sister, a girl who looks miserable with her round face and short blonde hair - perhaps the rumored Brienne Tarth? - and - _oh, heaven have mercy_.

A pair of soft green eyes meet his, framed by long brown eyelashes and curly hair. He smiles brightly, pearly white teeth cradled by skin kissed by the California sun. He’s lean and hale and young and just—beautiful is the word that comes to mind. Renly can’t breathe and his hands are clammy as he digs his fingers into the plastic board. It’s warm, too warm—why is it so warm?—and his face is burning underneath the gaze of this—this boy. He clears his throat and makes himself look away, focusing on the clock above the door at the end of the hall.

Renly needs to get a hold of himself. He's 22 years old. He's not a child. He's going to be a teacher's assistant at UCLA this upcoming fall. He's Renly Baratheon. _Mine is the fury_. He isn't, and honestly refuses to be, at the mercy of some teenage boy. Even if he is kind of cute. He's got these big eyes and long lashes, too long to be real and yet... and he's got curls that lie lazily against his face, cradling his golden cheeks in a way that makes Renly jealous. He's got a little button nose and a warm smile, rosy pink lips and a smirk that makes Renly feel like he's standing in front of everyone naked. 

He taps tentatively at the head of the microphone, wincing as a harsh peel of feedback rings throughout the room. All eyes are on him—including his—as his own blue ones dart to the clipboard in his hands. He's never been one for attention. He's very low key and he really does like it that way.

“Good one,” Cersei whispers underneath her breath, shaking her head. She’s just vapid and mean, Renly reminds himself, and he’s better than her. He doesn't have to put others down to feel good about himself like Cersei does. It’s these thoughts that keep him from putting her in her place in front of everyone. (That and the fact that Jaime would probably pummel him to a bloody pulp if he ever spoke to her that way. Jaime is nothing if not overly protective of his twin sister. A little too much, to be honest, but that's really not Renly's main concern for the moment.)

“Hi, everyone,” Renly starts to say, looking up at the campers. Most are uninterested, and then there’s him, knowing smirk and long eyelashes. Renly feels his mouth going dry. “I hope you all had a nice trip up here, and it's nice to see you all, here. Um. Welcome to Highgarden. I’m Renly, one of your, uh, counselors here. Mr. Baratheon couldn’t make it, so I’m welcoming you all on his behalf. I'm sure he would be here if he could. And you will, uh, eventually meet him, at some point.” It’s weird, calling his older brother Stannis Mr. Baratheon, but he did run the camp, own the property, and sign his paycheck every week, so maybe it wasn’t so strange after all. And besides, he had always been rather somber and austere so Mr. Baratheon really did kind of suit him. Even when they were growing up, Stannis was always serious and austere. He rarely smiled, rarely laughed... didn't play. After the accident that sent them to a boarding school all the way in Texas, Stannis had grown even more somber and morose, and snappish. Everything was about propriety and business, and he became a cruel, hard person, devoid of any sense of wonder or innocence by the tender age of 17.

Robert was... well, Robert, and was neither like Stannis or his younger brother, Renly, but rather, saw life as a huge party and decided that he would live the rest of his days indulgently, full of pleasure and good drinks and pretty girls. 

Renly proceeds to introduce Robb, who waves and smiles; Jon, who smiles shyly; Jaime, who just looks smug and content with himself (as per usual); Cersei, who just looks annoyed and like she wants to be back in the counselor’s cabin, away from all of “these snotty brats” (her words); Ygritte and Shae, who wave their fingers lightly at everyone with happy grins, and Robert, who simply chuckles and keeps his fingers locked over his rumbling belly.

“Robert here will be in charge of your meals. If anyone here has some sort of allergy or anything, make sure you let him know. Don't be shy. We don't really want to rush anyone to the emergency room in the middle of the night." He chuckles and there's an awkward silence. He was never very good at telling jokes. "Uh, anyway, Ygritte and Shae are our nurses here and the infirmary is the big white building with the red cross on it. You can't miss it. Either way, your counselors' will be giving you all tours at some point this week so you'll find it eventually. If you feel sick or need a bandage or an aspirin, these are the ladies you wanna see. They’re there all the time, so don’t worry about that.”

He can practically hear the crickets in the room and clears his throat awkwardly again.

“Everyone’s assigned a counselor, and if you don’t know who your counselor is, please be sure to see me after this so we can get you squared away.” He looks down at his clipboard, feeling very, very awkward and wondering how sick Stannis truly is if he can’t do this. “If you have any issues or need someone to talk to, please feel free to talk to us. That’s what we’re here for.” He smiles uneasily, unable to shake the feeling of the boy’s eyes on his face. Who is he?

He's staring at Renly, unabashed and unashamed, as though they were the only people in the room instead of being in a room full of people who could either make or break them. They're soft green, his eyes, like freshy cut grass or spring leaves. And Renly doesn't even know why he's entertaining any of this, he shouldn't be, not really, but it can't be helped. The boy is just... he has this happy little aura about him that makes Renly feel both calm and on edge all at the same time.

“There’s a strict curfew policy—” There’s a collective groan, campers rolling their eyes and grumbling in quiet protest as Renly continues. Except for the boy, whose smile simply falters a little as he continues to make Renly squirm. Does he know? Is he a mind reader? He must be, with how he simply keep staring at Renly without a care in the world. “It’s lights out at ten o’clock every evening, and if you need anything, we come around and we’ll take care of it for you. Anyone caught breaking this rule will be dealt with by Mr. Baratheon. If you're going to pay a visit to the nurses, that's different. That's okay.” He takes a breath. “You are all responsible for cleaning up after yourselves and just making sure you’re not leaving a mess everywhere, but I’m sure that won’t be an issue.”

He ventures a glance into the audience. The boy is still staring. Renly feels the blush creeping up his neck and blossoming onto his cheeks, and can’t help but to feel him leering. He’s _leering_ , for crying out loud.

“Every Saturday, we take a bus into the city at noon and come back at six. If, for some reason, we end up staying out later than that, we usually eat out somewhere or order something to eat on the way back. These trips are optional, but if you choose not to go, you have to stay here under the supervision of a counselor, or Mr. Baratheon himself, so you might as well just go. Los Angeles isn’t so bad.” He smiles, almost a breathless simper as he rubs the back of his neck. They all knew that—they all lived in Los Angeles or its' surrounding areas.

“Also, every morning, there are certain activities for every cabin and counselor, like, um, sometimes Cersei’s group will go play tennis while Jaime’s will go hiking or something. These are mandatory, and every group does something different every day, so it doesn’t get so boring. You’re pretty much free after one in the afternoon, so you can hang out in the library or the commons or even here,” he laughs, gesturing around the room. "We just try to keep you guys busy and make sure you have fun. Anyway... um. Breakfast is served at seven o’clock every morning, lunch is at noon, and dinner is at six o’clock. If you’d like a snack, Robert will be more than happy to help.” Renly smiles and glances at Robert, who just grins and keeps his hands folded over his belly. “I think I’ve covered just about everything. If you have any questions, feel free to see your counselor and talk to them about it.”

The mess hall buzzes with giggles and whispers and complaints already—and these kids are supposed to be here until the middle of August and it’s only the last week in May. He's just got to grin and bear it. All the counselors split up to gather their groups together, and soon the campers are separated into their own distinct groups. Most groups are composed of four or five, some what large but still manageable. Renly’s group is made up of a fidgety, gangly boy named Viserys, Sansa, Robb’s chipper younger sister, and the girl that was sitting next to the boy, her hair darker, longer, and not as curly, but eyes still as vibrant and alive, named Margaery. (He asks and yes, Garlan and Willas Tyrell are her older brothers.) He frowns, looking at his list. For some reason he only had three people on his list, which didn't seem right. Someone was missing.

“You know what? We’re not really doing anything today,” Renly says, looking at them sheepishly. He laughs and rubs the back of his neck with his right hand, slipping his pencil behind his ear. How did this happen? He checked the lists at least twice just so this wouldn’t happen. Cersei has to be behind this. “If you’d like, you can head down to the lake. Jaime’s on lifeguard duty and he’ll look after you guys. Just tell him I sent you.” Viserys and Sansa look like they don’t mind and turn in the direction Renly points them in, but Margaery lingers, pouting almost as she looks at him.

He wonders if she's related to the boy who was looking at him the whole time. She's got long, loose curls, a little more wavy than... well, whatever his name was. They have the same eyes, save for hers being more cunning. Her nose is turned up at the end, slightly, and her cheeks are soft and tan and she smiles in a coquettish way. Oh, dear. There has to be one every year. There's always a girl, every year, who sets her sights on Renly. And well, he's flattered, but he can't return their affections, obviously. It would be ethically and morally irresponsible to let it go on, though.  

“Aren’t you coming?” Margaery asks. Her lips curl into a small pout, a furrow forming between her carefully tweezed eyebrows. 

“Oh, I'll join you guys in a moment. I just have to figure this out first. Someone must have made a mistake, and I think we might be missing someone. I’ll be there soon.” He smiles and she blushes, leaving. She runs after Sansa, and he watches as they giggle and glance back at him.  _Teenagers_. Renly shakes his head and scowls at the list in front of him, flipping through the papers sullenly. There has to me some mistake, but what is it? It could be innocent, but he doesn't think so. He trudges to the counselor’s cabin with a scowl, wondering if he’s missing something or if this is one of Cersei’s jokes (she gets off on making everyone else around her miserable and Renly truly doesn’t put something like this past her).

Renly takes a seat on his worn chair, cringing at the creaky protests it makes as he scoots closer to his drawer. The fan whirs in the corner as Renly starts looking for the records of assignments, making a small face. He's left the door open to let some fresh air come in. Stannis is too cheap to shell out some money for an air conditioner for the counselors, so he’ll have his employees roast to death. At least he has one in his comfortable office, keeping him from boiling in his crisp suit and fancy shoes. The counselors have a pool going, though, so maybe they’ll have enough money soon. Renly is half tempted to go buy an air conditioner and install it by himself.

Renly shakes his head, going through the folders and papers on the desk, wondering if it really was just a simple error from the office. He shuts a drawer and opens another one, but doesn’t have the opportunity to so much as glance inside, because a timid knock on the door that catches his attention. When Renly looks up, he has to quickly steady himself, because he's caught rather off guard. There's... the boy, from earlier. This can’t be happening. He smiles awkwardly and shuts the drawer, sitting up as he tries to neatly arrange his desk.

“Excuse me? Is this the counselor’s… thing?”

Renly feels his heart clenching wildly in his chest, mouth going dry as he glances at the boy in front of him. He’s more striking up close with the lazy curls and friendly eyes, and Renly isn’t sure how he’s meant to deal with it. He nods shakily. This isn’t fair, he’s only a boy and Renly’s— he can't. He won't, he's the adult here and it's his job to protect him, even if he's... very... handsome. He's encountered handsome men before and it isn't anything different, this is business, this is his  _job_ , and he can't lose it just because he's a little unsettled at the moment.

“You’re Renly, right? I’m Loras.” He walks in and holds out his hand. Renly shakes it, hoping Loras won’t notice how clammy or shaky his hand is. Why is this happening? Loras—it suits him, and while he sits here it dawns on Renly that this is _the_ Loras Tyrell, the up and coming actor who was in the film he saw a couple of weeks ago—sits down, bringing his foot up onto his knee as he looks at Renly. He gulps. (Loras Tyrell, his best friend's little brother and the boy who spent the last half hour making him squirm.) Loras was very popular with many young girls, and the occasional young man, and it's odd to see him here. He seemed to have such a larger than life personality on screen, but here, in front of Renly's desk, he's very quiet and polite, almost shy in a knowing, practiced way. He's an actor, though. Of course. It's his job to be practiced.

Renly struggles to be professional.

“What can I, uh, do for you?”

“I don’t have a counselor,” Loras says, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward laugh, and Renly forces himself not to notice how lanky and soft he is, or how, despite everything, he has a boyish, playful air to him. Good grief. “I thought you might be able to help me with that. I mean this is where I have to come if I don’t have one right?” He frowns a little, lips curling in a familiar pout. Loras takes a seat, still meeting Renly's eyes. Renly nods quickly, a nervous laugh leaving his lips. 

“Uh—yeah—um—” Renly looks down at his messy desk, digging out the pack of post-its from under the files. Why didn’t he clean his desk earlier? Now it’s all messy and unkempt and Loras must think that he’s the most slovenly person alive. And, well - it shouldn't matter what Loras thinks, because he's just some kid who probably's too focused on something silly, like his social media feeds or something instead of Renly's cleanliness. Or lack thereof. He grabs a pen from the cup in the corner (a gift from Selmy last summer before he retired) and clicks it open, looking at Loras— _Loras_ —again. “You need a counselor, to, you know, get your stuff together and all. Do you know who your roommate is? Normally, er, the person you share your cabin with has the same counselor as you do.”

“Viserys,” Loras says, crossing his arms across his chest. He’s angry, eyebrows knitting together as he scowls and if at all possible, he becomes slightly more attractive. It's childish and endearing, and not at all intimidating.  _Don’t you dare drool, Renly. Get it together_. “Viserys Targaryen. He's annoying and pale.” He makes a face and Renly tries to hide his excitement by pinching the inside of his thigh.

“I’m, um, his counselor, so… I guess I can talk to the office about it and we can, um… figure this out. The kids should be at the lake now, if you’d like to meet up with them. It's nice out. You should, uh, go, you know. I think your sister should be there.” Renly offers a smile as he makes himself a note, trying to steady his shaking hand. He has to find Loras' file and figure some things out, figure out how exactly to approach him, his history. And a google search would be in order, too. He’s nervous, and the fact that Loras, of all people, is making him so nervous only upsets him more. “Is that all or—”

“That’s all… for now, anyway.” Loras smiles as he stands up, beaming—he _beams_ when he smiles—as he laughs. He has a bright smile, teeth gleaming white and shining like new pearls. “Thanks for all your help, Renly.”

“Anytime. I'll be here if you need anything,” he says, laughing breathlessly as he watches the boy leave his office, rubbing his hands against his face as he breathes deeply. This is going to be an interesting summer, to say the least.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this fic has been my love child since... well, since it started, really, and if you've just found it, I hope you enjoy and keep reading, and comment if you feel so inclined. if you've been here before, thanks for your continued support and for your comments, and subscriptions and bookmarks and kudos. you're all perfect lil stars and I love you dearly. if you're curious about things, or the story, or future plot points, or just want to request a drabble/fic, my writing blog is magicalgyal @ tumblr. happy fangirlin', guys.


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The campers have just arrived at Highgarden, but love is already in the air. Renly seems to be enamoured by none other than _the_ Loras Tyrell and Sansa Stark finally meets her the man of her dreams - Joffrey Baratheon - but is he a dream or a nightmare?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: some minor descriptions of violence/abuse near the end of the chapter.

Sansa Stark has only been at Highgarden for three days but she’s _already_ in love.

Well, not _already_.

She’s in love with Joffrey Baratheon, but she’s never even spoken to him. Today, she thinks as she pulls a bright purple shirt over her head, that’s going to change. She’s going to talk to him, even if it kills her—and it very well might.

Sansa thinks that Joffrey Baratheon is the very essence of perfection. He's everything to her, he's seems so gallant and cool and smart and hip and he's just so handsome and perfect. She swoons over his pictures in tabloids at the supermarket, blushes when she spies him across the room at dinner parties, and almost faints when she actually sees him in person her first day at Highgarden. She's never had much of an opportunity to talk to him or introduce herself, even, but she's going to make it happen this summer. It's going to be a good one. He does all the big films and although Sansa does films too, hers are the kinds one sees at Sundance and Tribeca and the like and usually don’t make it onto the big silver screen like Joffrey’s - at least, not yet anyway. He’s so _perfect_ and just...beautiful and handsome and Sansa adores him, very much so.

Because, well, he’s Joffrey Baratheon.

Margaery has to pinch the crook of Sansa’s arm to get her relax, because he’s really not a big deal. He’s a person, just like everyone else. Sansa shoots her a look as she tells her that she just can’t relax, because it’s _him_ , _**the** _ Joffrey Baratheon - _in the flesh_ \- and he’s perfect. Margaery shoots her a look and rolls her eyes, dragging her to the volleyball court, where they're supposed to be playing with Robb because Renly has to 'counsel' someone today (but Margaery knows something that no one else does, and that Renly's brand of counseling, at least in this case, isn't exactly orthodox). Robb's group teamed up with Cersei's to make lunch in the kitchens with Robert. Margaery’s met Joffrey - spoken to him, even - and doesn’t think he’s all that great.

“He’s rude and pretentious and just annoying and—”

“He might have been having a bad day!” Sansa defends, flipping her copper hair over her shoulder. Margaery shakes her head but doesn’t reply, walking with Sansa in a bit of a bothered silence. They’ll just have to agree to disagree, it seems. No one can have a bad day every day, right? Joffrey isn't who Sansa thinks he is, and she knows that because she knows _him_. Margaery is convinced that Joffrey, despite whatever attractive qualities he may have, is a snot nosed cretin. (Even if he is kind of hot.)

The volleyball court is right by the lake, and it’s enough to make Sansa panic. Jaime is teaching his campers ‘proper swimming technique’—whatever that’s supposed to mean—and she has it on good authority (Robb) that Joffrey's part of Jaime's group, since he's his uncle and all. (Sansa thinks it’s a sign.) Viserys meets the girls alone today, conveniently enough. Loras is missing, but Sansa doesn’t mind too much, mostly because Margaery says that her brother is homesick’, and that Renly helps him out sometimes. Thoughts of how much she pities Loras and his homesickness (Highgarden is beautiful and she can’t see how anyone could dislike it) are forgotten when she sees Joffrey—Joffrey Baratheon, in all his topless (albeit mildly scrawny) glory—heart beating wildly and face flushing. Viserys trips over her and tells her to stay out of his way.

Joffrey's here, and he looks good enough to eat.

Margaery glares at him, but Sansa’s too busy drooling after a shirtless Joffrey to even notice the small scuffle. Jaime’s standing on the boardwalk with the rest of his campers, Arya in her blue shirt and shorts, Brienne—or something—in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a tank top on her bulky frame, Garlan, Margaery’s brother - who is oddly enough, here as part of a university assignment (he's a psychology major who's focusing on children and adolescents and he's using this experience as part of his big thesis), in a pair of board shorts and a tank top, and Joffrey in nothing but a pair of flip flops and a very flattering pair of blacks shorts. Jaime seems very cool and aloof in a pair of sunglasses with a lifeguard tank top, red, and white shorts, some flip flops on his feet. 

She almost dies because she forgets to breathe.

“Sansa?” Robb asks, frowning a little at her. He scrunches his face up, a strip of sunblock on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “You okay?”

Robb, along with Margaery, isn't really impressed with Sansa's infatuation with Joffrey, but unlike Margaery, he tries to keep his disapproval under wraps because Sansa - for whatever reason - seems to have really taken a shine to the little blonde annoyance. He's a pest, a sniveling, spoiled little brat. He has to have his way all the time, and when he doesn't, he throws the most awful fits. Like a two year old.

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” she stammers, blushing as she looks down at her toes in her gold sandals. He looks at her for a second or two and shrugs before walking over to Jaime. Girls will be girls. Why can't Sansa be like Arya? Arya doesn't like any boys but Gendry, and that's different. (Robb is afraid that he'll never understand what Gendry has with his little sister.) Arya didn't have a boy crazy phase like Sansa did, or is still having, anyway. He shakes his head. Viserys is, as per usual, complaining about how easily he burns in the sun. Margaery tells him to suck it up.

“Wear sunscreen or go home,” is her advice as she piles her hair on her head. “Drama queen.”

Sansa smiles and laughs, and everything is just fine and dandy - she's going to have an unobstructed view of Joffrey for the next two hours at least, where she can drool after him from a safe distance without him finding out how much she likes him - until Robb comes over with Joffrey. This is not good.

She shoots her brother a look that he returns just as fiercely.

What's he up to?

“We’re missing Loras today because he’s not feeling very well,” Robb explains, almost annoyed. His frown is classic, all scowl, all furrowed brow. “So Joffrey here volunteered to be Viserys’ partner. Isn’t that nice of him?” He sits on his white chair with a pair of sunglasses on his nose. He starts putting on sunscreen and reads a magazine as the young campers begin play. "Don't get too crazy now, guys."

Sansa spends the whole game staring at Joffrey and how perfect he is and wondering if he works out—well _obviously_ —and how anyone can be so perfect and not even notice it? He’s so handsome, she could almost die. She gets so carried away that she even starts thinking of how she'll introduce herself to him - this is her chance after all - and decides that she'll be aloof, but not too aloof because she doesn't want to seem disinterested but doesn't want to seem too interested either. It’s because of that that when Viserys spikes the ball, she doesn’t move out of the way or even try to spike it back. So of course, the ball hits her right in the face and gives her a bloody nose and catches her completely off guard.

It’s really not that bad, but she’s mortified, and cries the whole way to the infirmary, not out of pain, but embarrassment. How could this happen to her? How? She had everything so very neatly planned and mapped out and this has to happen to her, in front of Joffrey, of all people! She wans to die. Margaery’s on one side and Robb’s on the other, leaving Viserys and Joffrey to their own devices for the rest of the morning. Sansa’s still sobbing and blubbering when Robb and Margaery carry her through the door. Ygritte and Jon are laughing at something but quickly stop when they see Sansa's bloody nose and hear her crying loudly.

“What happened to you?!” Jon exclaims, rushing over. She cries and stammers as Ygritte rushes everyone out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Ygritte sits her down on a cot, closing the curtain around them. She pulls some things out of the stand next to them, but Sansa’s too busy wailing and lamenting the lost opportunity to notice. Jon helps with the clean up, shushing her quietly with a concerned, small smile. 

 _Joffrey must think I'm the biggest idiot in the whole world by now_ , she thinks with a sniffle.

“Breathe, Sansa,” Ygritte coos, rubbing a small cotton ball with alcohol over her nose once Jon has finished. “It’s really not that bad. It’s just blood, sweet pea. You’ll be okay.”

“I—” She shushes her, humming under her breath as she cleans Sansa’s face gently. She gives Sansa an ice pack for the swelling—“There’s swelling?!”—and tells her to sit in the front with Will - whoever that is. Sansa trudges there sullenly and plops down in one of the seats, mouth set in a line as she glares straight ahead, holding the pack to her nose with a trembling hand - she's still so shaken up by the trauma of having almost been knocked out in front the boy she's been positively mad about for the last year or so almost because of her own carelessness, after all.

It is definitely not her day.

Fifteen minutes or so later, the ice pack has melted. She goes to return it to Ygritte, who tells her she’ll be fine.

“Just be careful, yeah?” she warns as Sansa storms away. The stomp down to her quarters is filled with silent rebukes—“How could I be so stupid?”—and thinking up ways of soothing over her bloody faux pas. But how? Perhaps she could have called it an exercise in acting? But everyone knew that she wasn't a big star so why would she have to do any exercises? Maybe she could say that she was so distracted by the plight of the malnourished South American children that her mother is currently working with that she wasn't even paying much attention during the game at all.

She sighed - she would have to work on her story telling skills, because no one was buying either one of those. Sansa finds Margaery in their cabin, hanging upside down from the bed as she reads a book. Her dark hair skims the floor slightly as she glances at Sansa.

"What's up? Feeling okay?"

“I'm fine. What are you doing? Where’s Robb?” Sansa asks, frowning. She had been hoping to have the cabin to herself so she could cry in peace. She can't cry around Margaery because she'll her that it's not a big deal and that it'll all be okay - but Sansa has no idea how on earth any of this will be okay because Joffrey must think she's the world's greatest idiot and -

“This is called a book, Sansa,” she says slowly, laughing. “I’m reading. And Robb’s—I don’t know.” She shrugs disinterestedly, going back to her book. “He’s probably getting lunch or something. Or talking to Jeyne. You know how he is. How would I know?” Sansa sits on her bed, feeling restless as she plays with her hands in her lap. She twists her hair a little, gnawing on her lip.

“And Viserys?”

“Probably finding someone else to complain to.”

“Loras?”

“He’s still with Renly, I think.” She looks at Sansa over the edge of her book. “I think he’s just really… I don’t know. He’s just not himself lately. He's happy, Sansa. I don't know how I feel about that yet.” Loras? Happy? Hm. Loras, who was much closer to Sansa, despite all outward appearances, was rather sad most of the time for no apparent reason at all. Outside, he was all bright smiles and happy charisma, but behind closed doors, it was a different story. She honestly couldn't remember seeing him genuinely happy. Good for him. After a pause, Margaery looks at Sansa again. “You might want to find a shirt without blood on it for lunch. It’s not exactly appetizing, dear.”

Sansa laughs and goes to her dresser, looking for a shirt. The first thing she did when she got to Highgarden was unpack all her things so she wouldn’t make a mess—like Margaery—but even then had a hard time remembering where she’d put everything. Catelyn Tully-Stark taught her children many things, but the one thing she didn't teach them was how to pack lightly. Sansa took at least half her bedroom with her, if not more.

“Did, er, Joffrey say anything?” Margaery groans as she pulls the bloody shirt over her head gingerly, closing her eyes. She finds a blue short sleeved blouse and buttons it, hoping she doesn’t start bleeding again. (Loras says that the blue offsets her hair and makes her eyes look nice and Joffrey's going to be at lunch and if he happens to look her way she wants to look her absolute best.)

“No, your precious Joffrey just walked away like nothing happened and moved on with his life. Much like you should, Sansa.” She shakes her head.

“He didn’t say a word?”

Sansa thought he might be a little worried.

“Nope. He seriously just left and went back to Jaime after you had your little accident. Can we stop talking about your beloved and go get something to eat, please? I’m starving,” Margaery whines. “I hear we’re getting lasagna today.”

While lasagna is definitely one of Sansa's favorite dishes, she can’t even get excited about it. Not even the cook’s jokes can make her feel better, and watching the Martell siblings argue over the last tapioca pudding cup like they do most days doesn’t even make her smile a little. She picks at her yellow gelatin and broccoli, making a face as she pushes them lazily around her tray with a fork.

Joffrey didn't care. She expected him to be at least slightly concerned - he made her bleed after all - but apparently not.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No.”

“Sure? Want those string beans?” Sansa pushes her tray listlessly at Margaery, who slowly picks a string or two off her plate before pushing it back. “You need to eat something, Sansa. You're going to like, pass out or something if you don't.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Margaery narrows her eyes at Sansa.

"Seriously, you need to - "

"Can you not? Seriously. I don't feel well and I don't want to - " Margaery nudges her with her foot and Sansa looks up, shooting her a look until she hears the sound of a chair scraping against the floor next to her, a lightly tanned hand resting on the back of it.

“Hi.” It’s _him_. Him, _her_ Joffrey, in the flesh. _Talking. To her_. She could die as she clutches her fork and spoon, looking at him through fluttering eyelashes. He grins as he sits down next to her. She can’t breathe. Oh, god. This is not good. How does her hair look? Did she burn in the sun today? She didn’t put on sunscreen and she hadn’t bothered to check before they left. Does she have food in her teeth? Did she get sauce on her shirt? She didn’t put her retainer in and for once, she’s glad. Joffrey is all light blonde hair, fair skin, and big green eyes with long eyelashes... he's gorgeous. Perfect. Even more perfect in person, up close.

“You’re Joffrey Baratheon,” she says dumbly, mouth dry. She wants to kick herself—she’s envisioned this moment for so long and all she can do is let him know that she knows his name. _Good one, Sansa_. "Hi."

“Call me Joff.” He smiles, teeth and all, pearly white and straight as can be. “You're Sansa Stark, aren't you? My sister Myrcella’s dying to meet you. She loved you in _Winterfell_ , you know.”

She laughs sheepishly, face flushing. _Winterfell_ was some silly little indie film she did with her family the winter before in Washington. She can’t believe he saw it and that he remembered her. He knows her. He remembered her. It meant that he went out of his way to see it because it really wasn’t in theatres and was only shown at select festivals and film exhibits (and he remembered who she was).

“Did she? Oh.” She smiles nervously, hands clammy and sweaty as she puts down her cutlery. She rubs her hands against her shorts, hoping he won’t notice. “How, er, lovely. Thank you, really. I'd love to meet her sometime.” Myrcella Baratheon is, according to everyone, a doll. (But her boyfriend's in love with Arya and she doesn't quite see it, poor thing.)

“I’m sorry about what happened this morning. Viserys can be… ” He paused, mulling over his words for a second. “Cruel.”

“Yes. I—yes,” she agrees, trying to wipe the silly grin off her face but she can’t help herself because he’s _Joffrey Baratheon_ and he’s talking to her and he saw her film and goodness he's so much more striking up close.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Me? I’m—I’m fine,” she stammers. Sansa can’t believe it. He’s talking to her. Joffrey Baratheon is talking to her. When Margaery goes up to get some more pudding, Joffrey asks her if she’d like to meet up later in the evening, and she agrees, still unbelieving. He leaves and sits down with his friends, shooting her a wink as he sits down. Sansa could faint.

(Had she managed to look directly behind her, she would have seen the face of one Willas Tyrell fall as he watched yet another girl be ensnared by the oh, so very wicked Joffrey R. Baratheon, but we'll get to that later.)

Sansa and Joffrey - Joff - spend the week together - sneaking out after curfew and going to the lake to goof around and talk about things (mostly what it's like to be a famous Hollywood actor like he is) and by Friday she's convinced that he’s everything she ever wanted. Not even Loras, charming and sweet and beautiful in his own happy way, can capture her attention the way Joffrey can. (And it’s not like she captures his attention either, because he’s too busy trying to charm the pants of poor little oblivious Renly Baratheon. Which is just fine with her because he’s her best friend and Renly Baratheon is so in the closet it’s actually kind of painful and it wouldn’t hurt for Loras to prod him out of it, even if there is this huge age difference. It’s not like it’s anything serious anyway, Loras tells her—it’s all for fun, and who is Sansa to tell Loras he can’t have his fun? It’s summer, after all. And Renly makes Loras happy, so who is she to begrudge him that?)

Their first kiss is under a sycamore tree on Sunday, and he tastes like cinnamon and something cold and smells like really strong cologne, but it suits him.

He tells her she’s beautiful and she blushes and laughs, tucking some of her hair behind her ear.

She’s in heaven for a week and a half.

Her only problem is Arya.

Arya always manages to ruin everything.

Arya doesn’t like him and doesn’t keep her disapproval of him a secret. Not even when Sansa begs her to just behave around him and not act like such an insufferable little idiot - no, not even that can convince her to keep her dislike to him to herself. Arya insists that he’s not everything he claims to be and is, in fact, trying to serenade Margaery and doesn’t want Sansa at all. Sansa refuses to believe it. Margaery can’t stand him and she wouldn’t do something like that to Sansa anyway. (If only she knew.) Arya just doesn’t like him because she hasn't gotten to know him like she has, Sansa concludes.

Arya trips him and flings things at him in the mess hall when neither the counselors nor Robert are looking, shoves past him and might have even spit in his pudding once—Sansa isn’t sure, but Joffrey insists he saw her do it, so it has to be true. Why would he lie to her? It’s not like Joffrey’s that bad, and when Joffrey tells Arya to bugger off, Sansa can’t say anything because she’s his darling and she adores him and it’s not like Arya is the nicest person to begin with. Arya’s just her little sister anyway so it doesn’t even matter what she thinks. Joffrey’s a gentle and kind soul—around Sansa anyway—so what’s the big deal? What’s Arya’s problem?

(Arya is just trying to protect Sansa, and perhaps she won't thank her for it for a long time, but it'll be well worth it. She's trying to save her sister from a world of heartache.)

It’s about fifteen minutes before curfew, and Joffrey’s walking Sansa to her cabin. They lean into each other—Joffrey doesn’t like to hold hands—laughing about something Jaime said to him that morning while they were playing basketball. The beach is seemingly lonely, and she thinks that maybe dragging him underneath the boardwalk really won’t hurt and it wasn’t like anyone would know anyway…

But then she hears it - Arya’s laugh and the laugh of someone else, someone she doesn’t know, and Sansa frowns. When she tugs Joffrey closer, she sees it’s the name that’s been whispered on everyone’s lips—Gendry Waters—and he’s wrestling with Arya.

Gendry Waters is the supposed bastard of one of the counselors, but Sansa doesn’t believe it. She can’t. Cersei has two children, Jaime has none, Robb and Jon definitely don’t have any—she would know, of course—and Renly doesn’t have any children either, seeing as Sansa's pretty sure he's never been intimate with a woman (Loras kissed her once, drunkenly, and afterwards said that _yes, **boys** do kiss a lot better_ ) so there's no way he's Gendry's father either. Mr. Baratheon has a daughter, Shireen, a sweet and gentle soul who laughs and giggles at pretty much everything. Sansa doesn’t understand how anyone could find Robert attractive, so she assumes he doesn’t have any children either.

But that doesn’t matter right now, because Arya’s hovering over him and laughing and he’s rolling her over and she doesn’t understand the meaning of any of this.

Is this the boy she saw sneaking out of Arya's room the night before they left for camp? Sansa had toyed with the notion that perhaps it had been Trystane Martell - since they were such good friends and he basically worshiped the ground she walked on and all. Apparently, Sansa has made a huge mistake.

“What’s going on here?!” she exclaims. Gendry practically knocks Arya over in his haste, and Arya glowers at Sansa, narrowing her eyes. “Arya?”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it to you?” She brushes the sand off of her clothes as she stands up, shaking it out of her thin brown hair. Arya’s like Bran, wiry and brown haired with grey eyes and a roundish face with the same damn sense of recklessness—though Bran’s days of being reckless are kind of over now, considering there’s not much damage he can do with some crutches and his wheelchair—heedless and generally ridiculous. Sansa’s never been able to understand why Arya is the way she is. Arya and Sansa are complete opposites: where Sansa is soft she’s hard, where Sansa is always quiet she’s the loudest in the room, and where Arya is bravest, Sansa is most scared… and then there’s her taste in boys.

Namely, Gendry Waters.

Sansa thinks Arya must be doing this to spite her mother (Catelyn can’t stand the thought of the boy, and if she knew that he was here with Arya, she’d yank her out of here before she knew what was even going on). He’s nice and all, but he’s just not Stark material. And who cares? It’s not like he’s going to marry Arya or something, though if Arya and Gendry were old enough, Sansa knows that Arya would definitely go with it, just to make their mother angry.

Heavens.

“Arya—” Gendry starts, but is quickly silenced by Joffrey.

“Who asked you?” he demands, shoving him. “Is your name Arya too?” It’s almost a sneer, and Sansa hopes his temper doesn’t get the best of him. Even though they’re both pretty in shape, Gendry’s got a good twenty, thirty pounds on Joffrey and it wouldn’t even be a fair fight, Sansa thinks. Not that it would come to that, but if it did… well. 

“Don’t touch me,” Gendry replies, wrenching Joffrey’s hands away.

“What’re you gonna do about it, huh?” He shoves him again, and this time Gendry pushes back. Arya makes to get between them, but Sansa holds her back.

“Leave me alone,” she mumbles, trying to wrench herself out of her sister’s grasp.

“What are you doing?” Sansa hisses, making a face.

“What are you doing? Let me go before—”

It all happens so fast. Before anyoen can stop them, Gendry and Joffrey are rolling around on the sand, throwing punches and screaming, cursing and it’s hard to tell who’s winning, and before she knows it, Arya’s on Joffrey’s back, screaming bloody murder. Sansa tries tearing Gendry away from Joffrey—her sweet Joffrey—but it doesn’t seem to do much good.

“Get off him!"

"Let go!” She doesn’t know who lurched forward or who pulled back, but someone did something. Because of that, she ends up falling back in the air and lands on her arm. In the blur, it seemed like Joffrey yanked her and pushed her away, but he’d never hurt her on purpose, would he? (No, he wouldn’t because Joffrey Baratheon had to know better than to put his hands on a girl.) Was it Gendry? No - Arya would have throttled him to death had that been the case. It's more of Sansa's carelessness, once again ruining what could have been a somewhat uneventful moment.

The volleyball incident is nothing compared to this. She’s screaming and crying and holding her arm and _oh my god it hurts so bad,_ and Joffrey yells, “Shut up!”

“What did you do to her?!” Arya hollers, and before Gendry can stop her, she’s clawed at his already bruising face with her stubby little nails. "You bastard!"

This is awful—all so awful, and if it weren’t for the blinding pain in her arm, she’d be trying to stop Arya from hurting Joffrey. But it’s okay, because Gendry’s got her and she can't hurt him when Gendry's holding her like that, and oh, look there’s Jon and Renly and they’re yelling… why are they yelling?

Everything goes dark after that.

When she opens her eyes again, Renly and Jon are still yelling, and Robb’s there too, and they’re all yelling at Joffrey, who’s got a thin scratch on his temple and a bruise on his cheek and demanding that ‘that sniveling little Stark savage and her little pet’ be sent home immediately.

“Joffrey!” she exclaims, sitting up. She quickly regrets it, hissing and tugging on her bottom lip, pain shooting into her right arm. The glance he shoots her could be enough to turn her to ice. “Joff?”

Joffrey ignores her and turns to Renly.

“My father will be hearing about this,” Joffrey threatens, storming out of the infirmary.

“Joffrey! Wait!”

Ygritte bustles over to her and tugs the yellow curtain around her cot, tutting at her. Her red hair hangs in a braid that she pushes over her shoulder, frowning at Sansa. (She actually really likes Ygritte and wishes she could be like her, strong and bold and fierce, instead of shy and quiet and not very fierce at all.)

“You just sit and relax now, little dove,” she fusses, shoving a glass of water and two white chalky pills in Sansa's hand.

“But Joffrey—”

“Forget him,” Ygritte says, rolling her eyes at Sansa with a shake of her head. “Take these.”

“But—”

“Take these.”

Ygritte stands over her and glowers until she takes them, and before she knows it she’s lost consciousness again. Sansa doesn’t know how long she’s out, but when she wakes up, her arm’s sitting in a white sling and there's some food on the small table next to her. She looks at her arm with confusion for a few seconds before she remembers what happened with Arya, and that—that boy, Gendry, and… Joffrey. She groans and leans back against the cot, sighing. He must hate her by now. But it wasn’t her fault, it was Arya and her stupid (boy)friend—her friends always ruin everything. Why does she do this to her? Why?

“What’s your name?” She glances to her left. The boy is holding a handkerchief to his nose, laughing a little. Sansa frowns. “I’m Willas.” She looks at him broodingly for a few seconds, and decides no harm can come from just giving him her name.

“Sansa Stark. It's a pleasure to meet you.” He nods for a few seconds, and she narrows her eyes at him. Where has she seen him before? It’s the eyes. She scowls, knitting her eyebrows together until it dawns on her. “You’re Margaery and Loras and Garlan’s brother, aren't you?” The boy smiles easily, laughing a little. He’s kind of cute, save for the bloody handkerchief. But I have Joffrey. Or had, rather. Willas has the Tyrell curls and the same nose and color of eyes, soft green. But he was unassuming, and very friendly, and seemed to just want to talk. She's never met anyone who talks to people for the sake of being friendly, or anything like that.

“I guess it could be, if you really see it that way. What brings you by?” 

“What?” Sansa frowns a little, a small pout on her lips.

“I get nose bleeds.” Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “’Cause of the heat and all,” he laughs. “What about you?”

“Oh,” she says, laughing a little. “I kind of fell. I guess it’s broken or something, I don't know.” He raises an eyebrow and she nods vigorously. “Really! I'm kind of clumsy.”

“Is that what you call what Joffrey did to you?” Sansa scowls at the stranger in front of her. How would he even know about any of that? How does anyone know? The people filtering in and out of the infirmary give her odd looks and it's making her uncomfortable. Do people know? What did Joffrey tell them?

“What are you talking about?”

“Everyone’s been talking about it. I just heard some people saying that Joffrey fought with a girl—two, actually, and Gendry too.” He shrugs casually, sniffling a little. “I’m guessing you’re one of them.”

She huffs, facing forward. She's not giving Willas the satisfaction. She doesn't have to explain anything to him because she doesn't even know him and he's got the story all wrong, anyway. Why would Joffrey fight her? She was on his side and he knew that. Jon and Ygritte are eating lunch. Jon’s blushing and Ygritte’s giggling furiously. (Sansa almost smiles.)

“He didn’t fight with me. He fought _for_ me," she explains, looking at him with exasperation.

“So how’d he break your arm again?”

“He didn’t break my arm!” Jon and Ygritte glance at her, concerned. “He didn’t,” she says softly.

“Right.”

“What do you know?” she sneers, narrowing her eyes at him. No wonder Margaery hardly ever talks about Willas. He’s nosy and seems like a total know it all and she doesn't like him at all - even if he is kind of cute in a smart-alecky sort of way.

“I know that he’s been talking about you in a way that makes you seem like a total slut and an airhead, but that you really don’t seem that way at all, now that I’ve had the pleasure of finally meeting you. And he’s been bragging about beating the crap out of the three of you guys too.” Willas shrugs, standing up. He balls the handkerchief in his hand. “But what do I know, right?” He whistles happily, waving at Ygritte and Jon on his way out. Willas doesn’t know what he’s talking about, she concludes, fuming. He doesn’t. Stupid boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, guys! thoughts are much appreciated! find me on tumblr! | magicalgyal @ tumblr


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble's already brewing in paradise, and the campers have only been there for two weeks! First Sansa and Joffrey sort of break up - are they or aren't they together? The Highgarden rumor mill is dying to know. Then there's the super awkward love triangle Jon, Dany, and Ygritte. But shh, that's supposed to be our little secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of self harm

Jon Snow doesn’t know when or how everything got so complicated.

Seeing as he's Ned Stark's bastard—there's no denying it and when people see him that's the first thing they think of anyway—he's taken it upon himself to live as simply as humanly possible. He didn't date in high school—wasn't interested in having a bastard of his own -- and kept to himself as far as show business went and never really got into it. That was the one thing Catelyn—he doesn't call her Mother because she's not his mother and he doesn't want to disrespect his real mother, wherever she is, not to mention the fact that only time he called her mommy (he was five) she slapped him across the mouth and told him to never say that ever again, so he didn't—never tried to stop him from doing, oddly enough, but he wasn't interested in it anyway. He doesn't have it in him to be a fake and conniving person—because most actors in Hollywood, with the exception of Robb and Sansa are generally fake and conniving people.

Then, when he got into UCLA with Robb, Renly, and Garlan— _keeping the wolf pack alive!_ —he moved into a dorm with Garlan while Robb dormed with Renly. During his junior year, he bought an apartment with some savings bonds he had from way back in the day. (Catelyn only bought him savings bonds for his birthday.)

Now he's a senior—or is going to be, along with Robb, Renly, and Garlan—and he has his own car—which he is painstakingly paying off—and a job (if you can call this a job) and life is good. Well, it was, and then Ygritte—Ygritte Wilde—pushed her way into his life and made it so much better. He doesn’t know how it happened.

One day he’s listening to a first aid lecture at the university—he wants to be a police officer and The Academy requires that all applicants take a first aid or similar course before applying—and she just sits next to him, popping her bubblegum and whispering loudly if she could see his notes because she left hers in the car and doesn't remember where they left off (the professor glares and keeps talking, ignoring them for the rest of class), and the next thing he knows she’s just his. He’s kind of lucky.

Ygritte is pretty—she’s always been pretty, with her red hair and blue eyes and crooked smile and soft skin. And she has freckles, a scattering of little dots over her face and body, shoulders, elbows, knees, legs. Her legs go on for miles, and she's just... _nice._ She's a nice girl, perfect. Way out of his league, and there's no disputing it, but she still likes him all the same. It doesn’t matter when or how or what she’s doing, if she’s dancing at the bar—it’s called a pub, Jon—or if she’s singing while she cleans, or if she’s crying while she watches Titanic— _they’re just allergies, stupid_ —or even when she’s being dorky and making fun of Jon, which, honestly, is what she usually spends all her time doing anyway.

Everything was okay, and then it suddenly just wasn’t.

Everything got complicated, and Jon Snow, who tried to live the simplest life he could (even though his life was too complicated for even him to handle sometimes) just wasn’t having it.

But now, yes, even now, when she’s so livid that he’s not sure she’ll ever calm down, she’s pretty.

This is where it starts gets complicated.

Daenerys Targaryen, sixteen and wide-eyed and shy, is the source of all the trouble he's had in the last week or two. Ygritte doesn’t like her. That, in and of itself, is very odd. Ygritte likes almost everyone, but for whatever reason, Daenerys has managed to get on her bad side and Ygritte doesn't keep her resentment hidden very well, not at all. She says there’s something funny about the girl, because she won’t speak unless spoken to (unless it’s with him, Ygritte mentions grudgingly) and she doesn’t look anyone in the eye (unless it’s _him_ , she notes spitefully over lunch in the cabin) and she’s always touching him.

"It's weird," she grumbles on the way home one afternoon. "You don't think it's odd that a sixteen year old girl seems to be so oddly attached to you?"

“It’s nothing,” he insists, but something about her silence makes him think she doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t think very much of it, because she’s sixteen and he’s twenty-one and she’s just some kid and Ygritte’s his girlfriend—the woman who he's madly in love with, mind you. He doesn't see it, whatever Ygritte talks about. It's mostly innocent, their long talks after dinner, or their walks throughout the camp during the day. Dany has a hard time adjusting and making friends, and Jon, who knows what that's like all too well, just wants to make her feel like she's got  _someone_ to talk to.

Though...

Little things that Dany does make him wonder if Ygritte's resentment has any solid ground to stand on after all. A few nights ago, she tripped, and they almost kissed - but it was an accident, and Dany laughed it off and so did Jon, awkwardly. Sometimes, she lingers, long after the rest of the counselors have fallen asleep upstairs, and there  _was_ the one time she almost held his hand. But Dany is very emotionally vulnerable, Jon insists when he's asked about their interactions. She's just transferring feelings, and she's just... going through a phase. It's a phase.

“You’re still coming on the trip this Saturday, right?” she asks, rubbing the back of her neck as she looks at him in a way that makes it seem like Ygritte isn’t there at all. They're sitting in the infirmary for lunch. Dany came in with a small smile, and he didn't notice that she was only looking at him until Ygritte pinched him discreetly underneath the table. Apparently, she only came to ask Jon a question. Jon smiles with an awkward laugh, trying to keep Ygritte from pinching him.

“Um… ” Ygritte digs her nails into his thigh, a small frown her face as he winces. He shoots her a look. “I—er—uh—yes,” he stammers. Shae comes in with a small cup of water and a pill in her hand. Dany drinks it and wipes the corner of her lips as she looks him right in the eye, and even though Ygritte’s trying to rip out a chunk of his leg with her nails, his mouth still goes dry. “I’ll be here, probably.”

If Ygritte doesn't rip a limb off him first, that is.

“See you later, Jon,” she says with a smile, laughing as she walks out. He thinks it’s okay and doesn’t think anything of it and since Ygritte doesn’t say anything at work either he thinks it’s not a big deal at all.

“She winked at you,” Ygritte grumbles in the car, on the way home. She's got her arms across her chest, an angry scowl on her normally happy, relaxed face. "She  _winked_ , Jon."

“Who?”

“Daenerys Targaryen,” she hisses, and it’s almost like she’s jealous. But she’s not, right? It’s not like she has anything to be jealous of. Does she? Ygritte is everything Jon has ever wanted, and no one will change that, or how he feels about her. They're in love, and Jon never thought that their love would be threatened because Ygritte feels like he's having an affair of sorts with Dany. Which he  _isn't_.

“She wasn’t.”

“But she was.”

Thursday is even worse.

On Thursday, the counselors took the campers to the lake, because it seemed as though all campers' careers didn't leave them time to learn how to swim properly and Jaime decided to take it upon himself to instill in them proper swimming technique—but really this reeks of Stannis not wanting to get a lawsuit because one of the children drowned or something. Dany swims rather well—Jon's seen her do it—but for some reason she acts the fool and as though she can't swim at all (right after Ygritte shows up to cheer on the campers—well, Willas Tyrell, really) and maybe she almost sort of drowned—kind of—and Jon had to give her mouth to mouth because she wasn't breathing and he can't just let someone choke to death.

(Ygritte doesn't talk to him for the rest of the day.)

Friday is a blur of Dany—always Dany—and Ygritte yelling at him—“She wants ya!”

When Ygritte gets mad, she won’t say anything for a while—she's the quiet kind of angry—the deadliest kind.

She’ll let it build and fester and bubble and boil over until it just gets to be too much and she explodes, and Jon will, without fail, make the mistake of thinking nothing’s wrong when everything is actually very, very wrong.

So on Friday night, on the way home from what has been a trying day—what with trying to keep Dany at arms length while at the same time trying to keep Ygritte from tearing Dany to shreds—while she broods silently, Jon should assume that she’s not just tired—when was she ever tired?—and that she is, instead, upset. Jon doesn’t ask when she storms in icily, slipping out of her shoes and kicks them sullenly into a dark corner, doesn’t question it when she grabs a beer from the fridge—she’s not one for wine nor anything sweet, really—and drinks half the bottle before setting it down on the counter, and he doesn’t even bat an eye when she drags him to their room and keeps him up for half the night.

Sometimes it's hard to tell how she's feeling. Sometimes she wants to rant and rave and throw things and sometimes she just wants to be left alone and sit and stew in her anger—and eventually she gets over whatever it is that made her angry and she'll be back to her normal sarcastic self.

Ygritte doesn’t ever seem angry—not really—but he should know by now that this is just the calm before the storm and sooner or later she's going to flip out. Jon doesn’t even know what he’s done, and if he hasn’t done anything, how can she be mad? He hasn’t forgotten her birthday (not for another month), nor their anniversary (not for another two months), nor Val’s birthday (it’s next week and his present’s somewhere in the trunk of his car), nor any other important date that Ygritte demands he commit to memory because they’re important to her and, by default, important to him too. It became clear enough in the morning though, in the afterglow of what might be round three or four—he can’t keep track anymore—that she’s in quite a sour mood indeed, but he doesn’t think she’s awake because she usually falls asleep a lot quicker than he does.

But of course she’s awake and of course he’s wrong, she's fuming, because he knows nothing.

It’s Saturday, and he has to get to Highgarden early today because they’re taking the kids out.

(Except for Sansa, Arya, Gendry, and Joffrey, because Stannis, in his odd sense of discipline, decided that even though Joffrey started the fight, they were all still responsible, and had to pay for it somehow. So Sansa and Arya are staying behind to help Shae restock and do the inventory of the infirmary, while Gendry and Joffrey are going to scrub out pots in the kitchen with Robert. It could be worse, and Jon knows this, so he doesn’t complain, and tells the girls the same thing. Sansa can’t really go out much anyway because of her arm—if Catelyn or Ned find out, Jon and Robb will never hear the end of it—and Arya doesn’t really like Los Angeles very much, so it’s not like they’re missing out, and Gendry and Joffrey kind of need to learn to get along anyway.)

He usually doesn’t go out to the city with the campers on Saturday because it’s supposed to be his day off. He normally spends it with Ygritte, but today he has to go to work. Mr. Baratheon is already upset with the Starks to begin with—but it’s not like he’s really a Stark—and he doesn’t want to make him any angrier than he already is. It might be kind of fun, because Renly and Robb are going too. Cersei is staying behind because she hasn’t been feeling very well all week, and Jaime is staying with the campers who don’t want to go.

Jon hopes to sneak out of bed without Ygritte noticing, but he should know better, because she’s always three steps ahead of him, always, and she always knows what he’s going to do before he even does it. He thinks he’s being sneaky. He’s snuck into the shower and brushed his teeth and fixed his hair and he thinks he’s just so damn slick, but he should know better by now. He doesn’t turn on the lamp because he doesn’t want to wake her up, which means he has to forage for his clothes in the dark. It’s a disaster, and when he stubs his toe on the damned dresser, he knows he’s a goner. The lamp clicks on and she’s sitting there, arms crossed over her chest—she’s dressed, he notes sadly—as she looks at him with the telltale frown that lets him know he’s in some serious trouble.

“Mornin’,” she says stonily. He can tell she’s mad because her accent’s creeping in—she’s from Ireland but moved to California three years ago—and she looks like she’s only seconds away from pouncing on him and tearing him into pieces. He's only been up for forty-five minutes at most and he severely doubts he really could have done much damage in such a short time, so what's the problem?

“Oh, er, hi.” He laughs nervously, trying to tread carefully. “You’re up early.”

“So are you. Funny, innit?” She’s biting the corner of her lip and shaking—she’s fuming, and for once, he’s actually scared. He should be, because Ygritte is fairly scrawny and he’s a good head taller than she is, but beneath all of that is a girl as fierce as her fiery hair, and he knows that better than anyone. “What are you doin’ up so early?”

“Nothing.” He turns around and busies himself with finding some underwear, but he can still feel her eyes boring into his back as he pulls them up his legs. She clears her throat loudly, so he turns around, drying off his neck and face. “Yes?”

“Where ya goin’?”

“There’s a meeting with Mr. Baratheon today—”

“Oh, I know. It’s at eight. It’s six now, Jon. Highgarden’s not even twenty minutes away from here. Let me ask you again. Where are you going?”

“Um… ” He fumbles to find a response. There’s no special reason why he wants to get to work an hour early today—not really, not one he’ll admit to anyone, especially not to her, because she’ll kill him if he tells her the truth, and he can’t even admit the truth to himself anyway. (It might have something to do with Dany. Maybe. He doesn't know anymore. She keeps threatening to harm herself, and he should report it, but he wants to help her, and he knows that going to a hospital is only going to make this worse.) “Nowhere. I just felt like getting up early today.”

“Really?” She laughs—not out of amusement, but because she’s caught him in a lie (she’s so good at that)—and he pulls a shirt over his head quickly. She gets out of bed. The shirt she’s wearing ghosts the middle of her thighs, and he almost lets himself get distracted but he has to keep his wits about him, because an angry Ygritte—so early in the morning, especially—is something to be feared. “Just felt like gettin’ up early? Thought you weren’t a mornin’ person, Jon.” She peers up at him through narrowed blue eyes. He slips past her and pokes into the closet, looking for a pair of jeans. "Oi! I'm talkin' t'ya!"

He turns and ducks when he sees a pillow whipping towards him, hitting the clothes before falling noiselessly to the floor.

“What the hell?!”

“What the hell is righ’! Who the hell is she?!”

“What are you talking about?” She shoves his phone in his chest harshly. He looks at the screen and blanches at the notification bubble. It’s a text from Daenerys Targaryen— _I really need to see you_ —but it might as well be a death sentence.

How does he explain it? Daenerys—Dany—needs a friend. She’s surrounded by half-crazed men all thirsty for power, and she’s just a tiny wisp of a girl. What's she supposed to do? It's not her fault that she's lonely and needs a friend and that her father went crazy and had her whole family killed. She's just in a really bad place and she needs a friend. What else was Jon supposed to do? Shun her like everyone else?

 _(Here’s what happened. Her father was the mayor a long time ago, and a man in such a compromising position had to have stepped and climbed over people to get to where he was, obviously, and these people would find a way to get revenge. What goes around comes around, after all. One sunny morning, the people of Los Angeles woke up to the news that the Targaryens, Rhaella, her mother, Rhaegar, her uncle, and the baby, for crying out loud, had all been shot to death in their sleep, and that the only survivors were Viserys and Dany. Or so they claimed. Conspiracy theorists insisted that the baby survived, but Jon had remembered the news report, all those body bags... the horror, the blood. A baby wouldn't have survived. It was a miracle that Dany and Viserys had survived, and no matter how much Jon asked, she refused to talk about that grim, horrid day. Elia, her aunt,_ _was an actress, Rhaegar was still a student at UCLA, Viserys was just a kid, and Dany and the baby were just, well babies. Jon remembered the morning he heard the news, and how Catelyn quickly shut off the TV when she saw him walk into the living room with Robb. It wasn’t like you could get away from it anyway, even if you tried._

_For weeks, months, almost a whole year, all people could talk about those poor Targaryen orphans and their family. Some said that it was the one of the Clegane brothers, sent by Tywin Lannister himself, to rid himself of the mayor and succeed him and thereby make the Lannisters one of L.A.’s most powerful families. Still others insisted that Aerys himself went crazy and shot his family while they slept and finally shot himself because he couldn’t take what he had done, but neither stories accounted for how Daenerys and her brother had survived. Dany herself neither denied or supported any rumor. When asked, she grew very silent, stoic, with a faraway look in her eyes._

_They stayed under the care of a certain minor political figure and for a few years managed to stay out of the public eye because of it—though Jon had seen maybe three or four pictures of her in a magazine over the course of the last couple of years, and that was mostly because Sansa left her magazines lying around and he happened to see her, but she was always covered up with a pair of sunglasses and a scarf or something, so it was hard to tell who it was sometimes.)_

This is the first summer the Targaryen children are spending with people around their age—or with people, period, really. It is, to put it lightly, a culture shock for Dany, who spent most of her life running and hiding and traveling from country to country under careful Illyrio’s wing. So obviously, she’s not friends with all the girls, and most of them don’t even know who she is, and those who remember the demise of her infamous parents shun her like the plague. Like Sansa and Arya, for example. He told them to try talking to her, but Sansa said that she just sat and sulked and Arya didn’t find her particularly thrilling either, so that was a bust. Dany needs a friend, or someone to talk to, at the very least. And Jon’s that friend, because he knows what it’s like to belong but not really, to be the one whispered and talked about and treated like dirt for something you couldn’t quite help. And so they talk, a lot, kind of, but it’s innocent—she’s sixteen, for crying out loud—and it’s not like she likes him anyway—she’s just overly affectionate and Jon thinks it's because she was basically deprived of any sort of meaningful social interaction growing up (she had to grow up with Vicerys, for crying out loud).

It’s not a big deal. He’s grown fond of Dany, but only because he sees so much of himself in her. Jon just doesn’t tell Ygritte because he knows she’ll freak out and find Dany and Dany’ll have a very interesting accident with some sort of sharp object that Ygritte will mysteriously know nothing about. She’s crazy sometimes.

“Jon!”

“It’s nothing!” he exclaims, tugging a pair of pants off a hanger.

“Don’t lie to me.” She turns away from him, shaking her head. “Don’t you dare stand there and lie to me! Why is some girl texting you at the crack of dawn?” He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t because she doesn't give him the chance to and he doesn't really know what to say regardless. “I’d pick my words carefully if I were you, Jon.”

“I—” He sighs. “Dany needs someone—”

“Dany,” Ygritte laughs bitterly. “Oh, we’re callin’ her Dany now.” She nods. “Daenerys bleedin’ Targaryen? Really? You’re messin’ around on me with _Daenerys Targaryen_?!” Ygritte whips a hairbrush that catches him right in the shoulder blade before he even knows what’s going on. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

“What?! I’m— _what_?”

“Don’t play stupid, Snow. Don’t. I can’t believe you.” Ygritte shakes her head, her red hair starting to come loose from the bun on her head.

“What's wrong with you?! She’s just a kid, and—”

Dany sometimes hints at liking him—but she's sixteen so he doesn't ever respond to it or take it seriously because she's just a child. And okay, sure, there's that one awkward time where she kind of kissed him and he may have maybe kissed her back until he remembered Ygritte and cut it short. It was once, and they talked about it, about why it was inappropriate and why it definitely shouldn't happen ever again.

“That’s exactly it! How’d—how’d she even get your number in the first place? What are you doin’ _textin_ ’ her, for cryin’ out loud?!”

“I—she needs—” Jon can’t even finish saying whatever it is he’s going to say (which is that Dany needs someone to talk to besides her older brother Viserys, who’s cruel and arrogant, and the other girls avoid her and Shireen is too busy with Arianne and Myrcella to be decent company), because next thing he knows he’s getting pelted with a bottle of perfume Ygritte probably grabbed from the dresser. “What did I even do?!”

“Oh, like this isn’t enough?!”

“Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset. Do I look upset to you?” She narrows her eyes at him, fuming. “I’m just wondering why a sixteen year old girl is texting _my_ boyfriend at six in the morning.” She shrugs flippantly, pulling her hair over her shoulder. “What?”

“It kind of seems like you’re kind of jealous is all,” he mumbles quietly.

_Shut up. Just stop talking. Stop. Don’t dig a hole deeper than the one you’re already in._

“ _Jealous_? Why would I be jealous, Snow? Oh, that’s right, because some little slag is texting you at six in the god awful morning! And I’m _not_ jealous, okay?” She shakes her head. “I’m mad at you. I’m disappointed. I thought you were better than this.”

He’s never seen her jealous. He’s been jealous, because Ygritte likes to flirt with everyone, and it’s just playful, really, but it still gets under his skin and they’ve fought about it a lot. But he never thought that she’d ever be jealous, because she was so confident and happy and just sure of herself that he didn’t think she physically had it in her to be jealous, but then again, it’s not like he’s the type to flirt or talk to any other girls. (He’s still not sure how he got with Ygritte at all. It might very well be one of his life’s greatest mysteries.)

“Oh my god,” he groans.

“What?”

“You’re totally jealous! And the worst part is that I haven't even done anything and I've never given you a reason to be—” Jon doesn’t know what possess him to keep talking, but it’s too late now, she’s heard it and he can’t take it back. He sees her hand this time, but can’t even move out of the way, her hand colliding harshly with his cheek.

“I didn’t—”

“Get out of my sight,” she says shakily, voice breaking a little.

“But—”

“Get out!” She shoves him with her small hands, scowling as she pushes him out of the room. He barely has enough time to grab his car keys and cell phone, much less shoes. “Your precious Dany’s waitin’ for ya, isn’t she?”

The only way to tell that Ygritte is really mad is when she cries. If she’s so mad that she’s crying, that’s it. There’s no hope left—you’ve hurt her too much. And Ygritte’s a fighter, strong and brave, like Arya, almost, and he can only remember making her cry once in their two years together. (It’s because of his family—his father, the mayor’s chew-toy—Ned Stark prefers the term advisor—his stepmother Catelyn, the shining light of Van Nuys, his brother Robb, following in his mother’s footsteps, ever the philanthropist, Sansa, who wants to be the next Elizabeth Taylor, Arya, feisty and headstrong, Bran, broken in body but not in spirit and mind, and Rickon, young and stubborn—is always in the spotlight, always in the public eye, never a private moment, and he won’t subject Ygritte to that. He can’t. At least, that’s what he tells her and himself, because it’s true, kind of. But then there’s what he doesn’t tell her, how his family would smile and act like they loved her—they were all just actors, after all—and spit and curse her as soon as her back was turned. Especially Catelyn. Catelyn was the worst of them all. She was always looking for another reason to dislike him, and even though Ygritte was perfect and sweet and kind, Catelyn wouldn’t take to her because she didn’t come from money. When he tried to explain this to her, she cried because she thought it was his way of saying she wasn’t good enough for him, which wasn’t the case at all, and in fact, if truth be told, he felt like he wasn’t good enough for her, but that’s beside the point.)

She usually doesn’t cry unless she’s really sad and hurt or angry, or both. And when she starts tearing up and sniffling and blinking her blue eyes quickly, he knows that he’s gone too far and wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. He tries to hug her.

“Please don’t cry.”

“I’ll cry if I bloody well please, you—” She can’t even say anything and instead pounds her fists against his chest angrily, face red as she sniffles. “Don’t tell me what to do. And don’t you dare _touch me_.”

“I—”

“You just—you get out. Don’t make me call Val.”

Val is like a crazier version of Ygritte, and he doesn’t want to test her. Not today, anyway. He slips into some shoes as she breathes heavily and rubs her eyes with the hem of her shirt and shifts her weight onto her left leg anxiously.

“Ygritte—”

“Leave me alone,” she says, shaking her head as she walks out of the room.

The drive to Highgarden is scenic and normally pleasant, but Jon spends it brooding and trying to call Ygritte, only to get her voicemail repeatedly. When he gets there, he parks his car in the lot and glances at the bus Stannis rented out, and it looks like there might just be enough seats for everyone if some people share. He manages to distract himself with busy work all morning until it’s time to go, willing himself not to look at his phone or call her and beg her to understand that this thing with Dany isn’t anything more than platonic. He’s trying to be her friend because she needs someone. And he doesn’t like Dany.

Not like that.

Jon manages to drag himself to the bus when it’s just filling up. Renly’s talking to Loras, Margaery’s whispering with Lyanna, and Theon and Trystane are sitting in the back in a stiff silence. Jon shrugs and sits in the front, behind the seat that he already know Robb’s claimed as his—his backpack and sunglasses and things are all there—and leans back in the seat, closing his eyes.

He’s not excited about today, and hopes that it flies by like the breeze coming in through the window. Asha trickles in with Jeyne. Meera scuttles in alone. Garlan slides in next to Loras. Brienne walks in alone before she slides into the seat behind him. Myrcella and Arianne giggle their way to the backseat, and Shireen sits across the aisle from them, next to Meera. Viserys slithers and sits all the way in the back, brooding and sullen. Dany comes and sits right next to Jon, despite the fact that there are empty seats everywhere and she could sit anywhere else—and frankly, after what happened this morning with Ygritte, he would be happier if she stayed as far away from him as possible.

“Hi,” she laughs.

He replies curtly, gnawing the inside of his cheek away, not looking at her. When he got to Highgarden, he called Dany, who simply told him she wanted to talk to him. When he explains to her _why_ it's wrong to cry wolf (or suicide), she simply frowns and shakes her head at him, like she doesn't understand what's gotten him so upset. He wants to be mad at her—what was she thinking? Why was she even awake so early?—but he can’t be, not really, not when she smiles and beams at him like that. She's just a silly little girl after all and probably didn't mean anything by it anyway. (And why was Ygritte going through his phone in the first place?) It’s not like Jon likes Dany, but she is really pretty, and he’s allowed to notice that, isn’t he? Dany has a sort of delicate beauty while Ygritte’s is solid and real and harsh and just there, but he loves her all the same, he reminds himself harshly.

The entire trip (the group visits a museum) is spent comparing Ygritte to Dany, how her hair’s bright and red and thick and Dany’s is blonde and soft and thin. Or how Ygritte isn’t afraid to laugh and Dany is—Dany’s afraid of everything and Ygritte fears no one, not a soul, because she’s Ygritte Wilde and she does as she pleases. Whereas Dany just wants to make everyone else happy, even those who can’t be pleased (like Viserys). On the way back home, they stop to get ice cream (Loras pleads and whines and even pouts until Renly finally pulls over and makes Robb come with him to get ice cream for everyone else) and it’s like she’s making a show of licking the ice cream dripping down her hand (it’s not fair), and it’s while she’s doing this that she asks if she can come to his cabin later because she needs to talk to him and Shireen is always with her father or the strange red woman (Melisandre) or Myrcella.

“Jon?”

“Yeah, okay, um… yeah.”

It's not a big deal because Dany is a pretty private person sometimes and it's not weird that she wants to speak to him privately because she might have a serious issue and she might not feel comfortable discussing it around everyone else, right? Right? Jon doesn't know anymore. The walk to the cabin is quiet on his part, and Dany twines her arm with him and chatters away happily, finishing her ice cream. When he sees Ygritte on the steps, he knows it’s the end when she storms past them, almost knocking Dany on the dry, packed dirt.

“What’s her problem?”

He doesn’t know when this all got so complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys, really? seven hundred odd hits, fourteen kudos, and like three comments? c': you guys are too sweet. thanks, and some more hits, kudos, and comments are always welcome ;D any questions? comments? concerns? drabble requests? how about you comment or message me on tumblr? my writing blog is magicalgyal @ tumblr (:


	4. Willas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas, who tries to have as little to do with drama as he can, suddenly finds himself wrapped up in one of the most dramatic people in all of Highgarden - Sansa Stark. She'll be the death of him. He can feel it in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm straying slightly from canon. Garlan is older than Willas in this fic.

“What do you think about Sansa?” Willas asks, rubbing the edges of the handkerchief in his hand. She's been on his mind for the last few days and while they've only exchanged a handful of words, he finds himself thinking more and more about her.

_Sansa Stark._

Gendry turns and looks over at Willas from his post on the bed, setting the comic down. Even though Gendry’s from Skid Row and it seems like he’d be really mean and intense and just crazy, he’s not, not really. He’s pretty quiet and keeps to himself, and he’s seeing Arya—kind of—who’s Sansa’s sister. And if anyone would know her, it’d be him, because he spent so much time around Arya, and Arya obviously knew her sister.

He figures Gendry might be his safest bet.

Margaery’s her roommate, but Margaery also can’t keep her mouth shut and would tell Sansa in a heartbeat—Willas knows that his sister can’t keep as secret to save her life, and isn’t resentful because it’s not like she can help that her tongue is just a little looser than everyone else’s. Loras is too busy trying to embody Renly Baratheon—he resigned himself a long time ago to the fact that Loras was a free spirit and wasn’t like everyone else and just _different_ and that was okay because he was Loras Tyrell and with a name like Loras Tyrell you really couldn’t expect him to be ordinary and Willas loved him no matter what because he was his little brother. Garlan is too busy being drooled over by most of the girls here, who have apparently never met a simply polite boy—Willas thinks it’s because he was in that silly movie with some girl whose name he can’t remember a few years ago and became every girl’s dream, including most of the girls at Highgarden. (And Garlan wasn't even supposed to be there anyway, but he was using this as part of his thesis or something. Willas doesn't know.)

Gendry Waters is the only person he can turn to in his hour of need.

“Sansa?” He frowns, looking at him with confusion. “Arya’s sister, Sansa?” Willas nods and Gendry keeps frowning, wary. “Why?”

“I’m just wondering.”

“She’s pretty okay. A little fussy sometimes, but she’s alright. Joff has her kind of screwy right now though. She’s sad. Arya says she won’t stop cryin’.”

Gendry shrugs and goes back to reading his comic book. Willas knows that she's sad because he’s seen her under the boardwalk with her face in her knees and shoulders shaking, because Margaery whispers it to him over dinner—Sansa eats in the infirmary with Ygritte and they brood over the men in their lives—and because he caught her in the washrooms one night and she shoved past him and ran away, sobs echoing in the night. Gendry then rants about Joffrey Baratheon for two minutes from behind his comic book, and Willas agrees with most of the things he says because Joffrey really is a little terror and no one really likes him. (Except for Sansa, and that's something that no one—including Willas—understands.)

Willas looks out the window and watches the sun sink past the horizon, not quite red and not quite orange, and thinks of her hair, long and silky and billowing and that shade of red right above the sun. (He's a goner.) He sees her eyes in the morning sky the next morning, and actually _sees_ her on his way to breakfast. He likes to wander off on his own in the morning, because it’s quiet and lovely (like Sansa) and he has it all to himself, anyway.

And then he sees Sansa. He wants to go say hi—make some sort of conversation—but falters when he sees that Joffrey Baratheon is with her. He ducks behind a tree and doesn't miss the way his hand tightens on her wrist and how she winces at him. Joffrey Baratheon scowls. Sansa almost looks like she’s crying, whimpers and gasps leaving her as she looks at him. Willas has never been a particularly violent person, but he feels a sort of fury he's never really felt before when he sees Joffrey Baratheon treat her that way.

“You’re hurting me,” she cries softly, shaking.

“I’m hurting you?”

“I’m—I’m sorry, I just—”

“You just what? You’re absolutely useless, Sansa. You know that? Seriously. You’re useless,” Joffrey Baratheon says softly, glaring at her angrily.

“I’m—I’m not—” she stammers.

Willas wishes for a simple second that he was recklessly brave and could interject and be her hero and knock Joffrey Baratheon down a few pegs and make him stop, but he’s not brave or reckless and has a plan of sorts, but it doesn’t involve getting beaten within an inch of his life by Sansa’s paramour. He’d like to live the rest of his life in mild comfort, after all, and if Jaime or Cersei found out that Willas beat the living daylights out of Joffrey Baratheon, he's not sure he'll be able to.

“Excuse me?” Joffrey Baratheon raises a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with you. I can’t stand to look at you anymore. I don’t know why you’re even here. I mean, honestly. I hate you, your sister hates you, obviously, Robb probably hates you and so does Jon—I mean, I don’t see why they wouldn’t, really, and Margaery’s just pretending to be your friend, of course. It’s not like you have any friends that actually enjoy your company at all, so why are you here? Why?”

Willas is by no means a violent person (actually he’s quite the opposite) but in that moment he feels a fleeting sense of murderous rage and the reckless brand of heroic justice that he’s never really felt before and wonders, briefly, what would happen if he did do something to Joffrey. But then he remembers that he’s in a delicate state of health and if he can’t climb stairs some days without feeling like fainting, taking on the bastardly Joffrey Baratheon won’t be a good idea. Even if he is hurting Sansa.

“I—”

“Stop crying. It makes you look uglier than you already are,” he says, shaking his head as he pushes her face away. She clutches at his shirt, sniffling and freely weeping, struggling to catch her breath. “I’d watch myself if I were you, hm?”

“Joffrey, please—”

“Don’t.” Joffrey Baratheon wrenches her fingers away with disgust. Willas holds his breath. “And the next time I catch you running your mouth to anyone, I’m going to break more than your arm, you hear me?”

A pang of guilt hits Willas like an arrow, right in the chest, as he thinks about their conversation in the bathroom, when Sansa cried about how much she missed Joffrey Baratheon and he tried to convince himself that shoving Joffrey Baratheon’s face in the toilet and flushing it a few times wouldn’t solve anything, and instead patted her shoulder and told her it would be okay, because he figured that telling her how much he liked her and how he wouldn't ever dream of treating her that way would kind of kill the mood. How had Joffrey Baratheon even found out? Does he even have any real friends?

“Joff—”

“You’re pathetic, Sansa Stark.” Joffrey Baratheon stomps away after that, swatting at the brush and undergrowth beneath him. Sansa cries and tramples along to the path before Willas can even tell her to wait. He watches her leave, gnawing on his bottom lip.

Willas starts to plot—he’s rather good at that, after all. All throughout breakfast, he thinks different ways to talk to Sansa, but keeps mum and watches her stare down at her plate with blotchy eyes and poke at it with a trembling fork.

Robb takes them hiking. It's nice. The air is fresh and it's not so hot, not to mention that there's a lot of shade because there's so many trees. During one of his nosebleeds on the hike back down—he gets one if the air’s too dry (or humid) or if he’s nervous or just for no apparent reason sometimes—he picks Sansa some wildflowers, because if nothing else, Willas Tyrell is a hopeless romantic. Willas just wants to hold Sansa and tell her that it’s okay and pummel Joffrey Baratheon to death with a heavy book.

But he doesn’t, he doesn’t hold Sansa or kill Joffrey Baratheon, and instead avoids the curious looks from Robb, Gendry, Myrcella and Arianne with flushed cheeks on the hike down, gripping his flowers tightly.

He finds Sansa near the lake, sitting on the boardwalk with her arms wrapped around her legs, head propped up on her knees. Her hair sways and moves a little with the breeze, red and gold and shimmering. He holds his breath. She’s sitting with Loras, who’s tanning on his belly, reading a magazine. He glances to his left, only to see Renly shooting them looks every once in a while.

“I just think you—” Loras looks up and grins, wriggling his eyebrows at Willas.

Sansa stays silent, fingers brushing her hair out of her face. Willas wants to slap the grin off his brother’s face, because it’s like he knows, and it’s not a surprise, because he’s worse than Margaery and Grandmother sometimes, always having to know everything. But Willas doesn’t know if Loras told Sansa, and if Loras had any doubts about Willas’ feelings towards Sansa, they’re probably gone now. Loras is friends with Sansa—they met at Margaery’s birthday party last year and have been thick as thieves ever since.

Margaery and Loras even spent the holidays with the Starks in Aspen.

Margaery invited him, saying it would be such a blast and that he just had to meet Sansa. Willas would have gone, but he couldn’t ski or snowboard or do much of anything, and he didn’t want to be a damper on everyone else’s fun. So he spent the holidays at school, like he did every year. It wasn’t so bad. He spent some time in the library. Mingled within the crowds in D.C., ate dinner alone in a few diners, hung out with a couple of other friends and had a few snowball fights. It wasn’t so bad. He would have gone home, except that with Margaery and Loras off in Aspen, and Garlan being sick, his family would be more intolerable than they usually were.

Willas tries avoiding his parents and grandmother if he can help it.

The Tyrells are a formidable bunch if nothing else. Grandmother Tyrell is sometimes referred to as the Queen of Thorns (only behind closed doors) because she speaks her mind so very freely without at all pausing to consider the possibility of people’s feelings being hurt. His father directs films and stuffs his face all day, but is still mildly crazy and not at all to be trusted. And his mother is a costume designer, so she doesn’t seem too bad, until you set her off—and then it's no holds barred and the next thing you know she's screaming at the top of her lungs and you have no idea why. Willas’ siblings are his only solace because they accept him for who he is and wouldn’t have him any other way. His father is always acting like he’s a disappointment (he can’t sing like Margaery or act like Garlan or Loras, and it’s not like he hasn’t tried, but his efforts usually end with him slamming his fists against the wall in frustration and with a nose bleed and migraine) and his mother fusses too much and his grandmother is always plotting something, so visits home are few and far in between if his siblings aren’t around, and even then, it’s rare.

Since Willas was away at school in Washington, D.C., he didn’t really care or think much of Sansa’s friendship with Loras and Margaery… until he came back and went to Highgarden and actually met her.

He’s never been jealous of his brothers—or has tried to convince himself that he’s never been anyway. Loras is an actor and is usually nominated two or three times a year for an award and never leaves the award show empty handed—never, ever, ever, not once. Garlan always wins, and he’s a wonderful actor, they both are, and he’s happy for them. And they’re both such good friends with Sansa Stark, damn it. Willas can’t act and even if he could, his ‘delicate’ health—and overbearing mother and grandmother—won’t let him. He’s okay with that, because he has other virtues that he still appreciates even if nobody else does.

But he’s never been more not-jealous of Loras and Garlan in his whole life than right now.

He knows that if Loras wasn’t too busy trying to get into Renly Baratheon’s pants—according to Margaery, and Margaery just knows everything that happens here before everyone else does- he would have tried getting with Sansa, and Sansa would have fallen in love with him. Why not? He was tall—taller than Willas, anyway- and had a mop of curly chestnut brown hair—but all of the Tyrell children did, but Willas lucked out there too, with his floppy dark brown hair—and was pretty handsome, even if he was an annoying, pretentious brat—rarely, but Loras did have his moments. If Loras wanted Sansa, he would have had her, and this whole thing with Joffrey Baratheon could have been avoided. But Loras wants Renly, not Sansa, so she is free to be romanced and wooed by Willas (and subsequently anyone and everyone else). His romanticism will kill him one day, he’s sure of it. But until then he’ll carry on, because that’s all he can really do.

It’s not like he meant for this to happen.

Margaery always described Sansa as a cheerful girl and didn’t say much else about her. Loras adored her because she entertained his whims (and the person who can take all of his ridiculous exploits and still love him is rare indeed) and never complained. When Garlan filmed a short film with her last summer, all he had to say was that she was funny and kind of sweet (and a wonderful kisser too, but Garlan’s been dating Leonette for two years, so that’s their little secret).

Sansa Stark is _divine_ , and he really can’t put it any other way. She’s graceful and trusting and wonderful, and just so—

Loras winks at him and Willas almost kicks him off the dock, scowling at him. His sister is pretty, Garlan is good looking, Loras is handsome, but Sansa is beautiful and lovely and radiant.

But it’s not like he can just tell her that—yet, anyway—so he just admires her from afar and keeps mum about his feelings. He almost makes a move—almost, but not quite—and the next thing he knows, she’s with Joffrey Baratheon (he can’t just say _Joffrey_ , because he’s so horrible that he has to say his full name, _Joffrey goddamn Baratheon_ ). It’s not a surprise. Joffrey Baratheon is blonde and bright-eyed and just so damn smug and confident. Margaery tells him that Sansa’s been dreaming of Joffrey Baratheon for years—something she and Loras both left out, conveniently—and dejectedly he watches as Joffrey Baratheon holds her and kisses her when they think no one’s looking.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if it were anyone else. He would accept defeat and move on with his life and hope that another opportunity would present itself, much like he had for most of his young life. Joffrey Baratheon’s just such a douche, and there’s the problem. Joffrey Baratheon tried getting with Margaery around New Years’, and after her firm denial of his advances, he showed his true colors and got nasty and rude, but one run in with Grandmother nipped that right in the bud.

Sansa seems so happy with Joffrey Baratheon, so Willas beats down the crush into the recesses of his heart and contents himself with the thought that maybe this is just some silly summer fling and that come fall, he’ll be free to serenade her all he wants. Until he remembers that come September, he’ll be flying out to the other side of the country—he got into Georgetown—and Sansa will still be here.

And so will Joffrey Baratheon.

He thinks Sansa is happy—she seems so damn happy, smiling at everything and everyone—until the infamous fight and the subsequent breakup. He should be happy, he wants to be happy—she’s not with Joffrey Baratheon anymore, and he’s free to be as much of a sappy romantic as he wants. The problem is that she’s not happy anymore, and it dawns on him that the little sod might have actually made her happy. He doesn't really understand how, because Joffrey Baratheon is rude and just annoying—and it’s not just because he got to Sansa first, though it is, kind of—but he must have done something or said something that lit her up. Whatever it was, the breakup was enough to kill whatever it was that made her so happy, and she’s just sad and tired all the time, and Willas knows she can be so much more.

He’s seen it.

So one restless evening, as he holds a handkerchief to his bleeding nose—when isn’t he bleeding?—he resolves to, if nothing else, make Sansa Stark happy.

At least for now.

He won’t know if he doesn’t try, and he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life wondering what might have happened if he had just not been so afraid.

(Willas Tyrell is, for all intents and purposes, a deep thinker and overall intense person in his own right, and tends to over think and oversimplify and take things more seriously than others his age would, and most of these thoughts occur to him in the middle of the night, and at the time they seem pretty legit, but when put in to practice end up undermining all of his hard work.)

All of that has culminated to this very moment.

“You know what? I think I’ll just tell you later,” Loras says softly, squeezing her freckled shoulder.

“Bye,” she murmurs softly. Loras just keeps grinning at him as he gets up, slinging the towel over his shoulder as he pats Willas on the back. 

“Hi, Sansa,” Willas says hopefully, holding the flowers with clammy hands. She turns to look at him as she picks herself up, eyes rivaling the sky in Bel Air on a clear day, so blue and intense and just stunning. He gulps. This seemed a lot easier in his head. He had this all mapped out—he'd be all suave and she'd really like the flowers and they'd ride off into the sunset on a motercycle. Or something. Willas has become a dreamer lately.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She looks at him curiously, red lips in a curious pout—she pouts all the time without meaning to. There's no hi, hello, how are you—no, nothing. Sansa has become startlingly blunt lately but Willas can’t say he minds. He kind of likes it and it keeps him on the edge of his seat and— “Willas?” He snaps out of his reverie, shaking his head a little.

“Yeah. I just—I—these, er—I was—I—uh—I just—” He stops himself, trying to retain a single shred of self-confidence. “These are for you,” he offers, holding his hand out. She looks at the flowers and blushes, taking them from him with a small laugh. The wall she's built around herself around others is starting to crumble, and Willas feels slightly elated.

“Why?”

“I was out and about and they just made me think of you,” he blurts out, wishing he sounded just a bit more collected. She smiles and he thinks he’s going to die, it’s so radiant and beautiful and she’s just too pretty and it’s awful and he just wants—

“Willas!” Loras yells. He closes his eyes and sighs quietly, trying hard not to look so disappointed, even though he is. “Sansa! We’re gonna be late for lunch!”

He laughs sheepishly and Sansa is still picking at the flowers with that smile, and he knows that it was all worth it, the tripping over gnarled and twisted tree trunk roots and potentially getting poison ivy (he’s not sure yet) and getting a nose bleed and looking like a positive fool has all been worth it, just to see her smile.

She takes a yellow one and puts it behind his ear, laughing a little. Her hands are soft and she smells like roses, like the perfume Grandmother Tyrell wears on special occasions.

“You should go before Loras drags you away, Willas,” she says wryly, smiling at him.

“You can call me Will, you know.”

“I like Willas.”

Sansa Stark will be the death of Willas Tyrell. 

The yellow flower has taken up residence in his shirt pocket. He buys his lunch with Loras absentmindedly, not even flinching when Robert serves him a bowl of mystery meat stew, grabs some gelatin and doesn’t even bat an eye at Arianne Martell clawing at her brother for the pudding that she seems to love so much. He sits down at Arya’s table, keeping a lofty eye on the door. He hopes Sansa shows up, even though he knows she probably won’t.

The disappointment is cured, oddly enough, by Arya.

(Arya Stark saves the day, as per.)

Arya trips Joffrey Baratheon and makes it look accidental (she’s getting good at it), shrugging casually as he seethes and tells her she’s a good-for-nothing cretin. Gendry tries to look serious but can’t and ends up cracking up and almost shoots water out his nose. Willas tries not to smile at how ridiculous Joffrey Baratheon looks with pudding in his hair and tuna on his shirt.

“Okay,” she replies simply, grinning at him as she shrugs, wriggling her eyebrows at him.

“Okay!?”

Her indifference regarding his insults seems to enrage Joffrey Baratheon, which makes it all even funnier, and Willas can’t help but to laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” he spits.

“Nothing,” Willas says, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

“Tell me,” Joffrey Baratheon insists. He narrows his eyes at Willas. “You’ve got blood on your collar. Disgusting.”

“Well, anything’s better than rotting tuna fish,” he grins, wriggling his eyebrows at him as Joffrey Baratheon stalks away, surely to complain to his mother and uncle about how horrible the Starks—and Willas—were. “I’ve think you’ve got some in your hair!”

He shares a conspiratorial smile with Arya.

After lunch, he plays a game of basketball with Loras, Renly and Jaime. All goes well for most of the afternoon, until his nose bleeds and Jaime gets all freaked out and makes him go pay Ygritte a visit—despite Renly's attempts to explain to Jaime that this is all really pretty routine for Willas. Ygritte makes him sit on the cot and lean his head against the wall as she cleans him off, dabbing at his face gently with a small towel.

“What’s it I hear about my little prince and his lady love?” Ygritte asks, peering at him through blue eyes that are like and yet so unlike Sansa’s, laughing a little at him. Willas scowls. He’s her little prince because on the first day of camp his mother made a huge deal about how delicate her little baby (Willas, even though he’s only younger than Garlan) was and Ygritte has yet to let him live it down. He’s not so sure about the lady love part, though.

“Who?”

“Little Sansa Stark,” she says, wriggling her eyebrows at him playfully. “I’ve got eyes, boy. And ears. Word on the street is that my little prince here’s tryna woo her.”

“I don’t—I’m not—I just—” His face flushes as his tongue twists. “I’m not wooing anyone. It’s not anything like that. I’m just, er—it’s complicated.” He doesn’t really know how to explain the whole Joffrey and Sansa thing without getting Ygritte to beat the kid senseless, and even though Willas wouldn’t mind, others might—and Ygritte might lose her job and Willas likes her more than Shae anyway.

“Ooh,” she coos, pinching his cheeks as he shifts uncomfortably. “So it’s true?” He shrugs and coughs into his handkerchief—they’re gifts from his grandmother, and even though he doesn’t like to use them, he starts to, just because they’re softer than tissues and don’t chafe at his nose and make him look like Rudolf in the middle of June. He plays with the edges, embroidered light blue and grey because his grandmother had too much time on her hands. “Never thought I’d live to see the day—”

“Ygritte!” he exclaims, hoping she’ll stop being so sentimental. “It’s not like that. We’re barely friends, and—” He sighs. “It’s really not a big deal,” he says softly. “And I honestly doubt anything’s going to come from it so can you not—”

“What? I’m excited for ya! Sansa’s a pretty little dove, and you’re not too bad yourself,” she laughed. “Off with you, go out and get some fresh air into those lungs!”

“That’s how I got into this mess in the first place.”

“Shoo,” she says, making him get up and step out into the setting sun. It doesn't take him long to walk to his cabin—he usually lies down after a nosebleed because he feels so dizzy—and spends the entire ten minutes thinking about Sansa and how she said she liked his name and how her face lit up. He's making progress. Slow and steady.

There’s a note underneath his pillow when he goes to the cabin. He was looking for his copy of Ulysses, but found a folded up square of notebook paper instead.

_Thanks for the flowers._

_It was dorky, but kind of sweet._

_And I’m keeping the book. The library doesn’t have it and I’ve been trying to get around to reading it._

_Joyce is overrated, but Ulysses is perfect._

_xo Sansa_

He loves Ulysses, and the fact that she thinks Joyce is overrated (which he totally is not) and kept his book is enough to have him hyperventilating and holding a handkerchief to his nose in five seconds flat.

Sansa Stark is going to be the death of him—he can feel it in his bones.

Margaery gives him Sansa’s copy of _Emma_ the following day, and that evening, _Atlas Shrugged_ is missing from the desk and replaced with a tiny paper swan. This game continues for a week, and by Saturday morning, he has _Emma, The Fountainhead, Dante’s Inferno_ , and a paper frog, swan, and flower, plus multiple notes that are delivered from Loras and Margaery. Her handwriting is long and flowing and her notes smell clean and sharp, like honeysuckle, and the fact that she seals them with red lipstick of all things take his breath away.

He’s spending the day with Sansa when they go into the city today, and with a whistle, finds a seat behind Trystane and Garlan. He has a copy of _Sons and Lovers_ in his hands. Margaery told him that Sansa mentioned it in passing and he happens to have it so why not save her the trouble of sneaking into his room? He tries to remember what happened in it—it’s been a while since he read it—so they can talk about it.

And about her views on Joyce— _how can she say he’s overrated?!_

But Willas Tyrell should know by now that he can’t ever win—he thinks he has, but he hasn’t, not really, because despite his efforts and despite her positive responses—each smile and note outshines the one before it—Joffrey Baratheon still has her wrapped around his little finger. That is made quite clear when he sees them walking on the bus together, her pale hand in his even paler one, all secret whispers and soft smiles. They sit in front of Garlan and Trystane.

It just rubs salt in the already festering and infected wound that he calls his affections for Sansa.

Willas doesn’t know why he expected anything else.


	5. Loras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas totally likes Sansa and Loras knows that Sansa definitely likes him. It's just a matter of shoving them together, that is, if Renly even lets him. It seems as though it's up to Loras has to play matchmaker, not just for Willas, but maybe for himself, too. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited. tw for implied/actual underage sexual content. (barely.)

Things are awkward now, between Loras and Renly. The thing is, Renly is different. He doesn't look at Loras like he's  _Loras Tyrell._ He calls him _Lo_ , for starters. And apparently, he only wants to be Loras' "friend" because of his high moral standard and because he thinks it would be "inappropriate". Not that this has stopped Loras at all, of course. Renly is very... he's just different, and Loras adores that about him. He adores his sense of right and wrong and how he feels a moral duty to be better than his brothers, to be good. He's inherently good, and that's the problem. All Loras wants to do is have fun, all he wants is some good old fashioned sex with an older man who could probably put Clark Gable to shame.

"Do you not want me?" Loras asks softly, sitting back on Renly's bed. He's done his best to be as seductive as possible. His button down is a soft blush color and he's wearing really nice green shorts and his hair looks great because the sunshine and fresh air here really agrees with him, and he just - Loras looks really good today, but Renly for whatever reason, has insisted on not entertaining his whims at all. Loras was about to give up hope until Renly finally kissed him. It was magical, even if it only lasted a few moments, and even if it was behind the mess hall. And he just... he didn't understand Renly Baratheon. It's all touch and go with him, sometimes. Sometimes he's hot and wants Loras, but then his morals kick in and he turns ice cold. 

Renly is sitting against his headboard, legs crossed. Loras has never seen a man look so good in a simple pair of sweatpants and a stained sweater, but Renly's managed it, somehow. His heart is heavy as he watches him work diligently on something for work. Not here, but his other job. He's going to do some teacher thing, here in California. Loras is already being shipped off far, to boarding school in New York next fall. He was kind of happy to spend his last year before college away from home. Away is now going to mean being away from Renly, and he isn't quite sure that he can handle that, not really. Still, it isn't the time to think about being  _away_ from Renly, because he's got Renly now. Loras pouts, and makes a small face as he tugs on Renly's foot. 

"Loras." He peers at Loras over his glasses, frowning slightly at him. He hardly ever calls him Loras, so he knows this is serious. "I'm trying to work here."

"But I want you."

"If you're here, you're here to help me work. I have to finish this part of the syllabus and - " Loras stops him with a kiss, moving his books and papers and pens out of the way. He settles himself on Renly's lap with a small smile, wrapping his arms around his neck. "Lo, c'mon," he laughs, pecking his lips quickly. "I'm being serious."

"I'm being serious too," he teases, rocking against Renly's thigh. Renly laughs and squeezes his side, nosing at him. "I'll ride you this time."

"You won't. I have to finish this," Renly replies, going back to his papers. He peers over Loras' shoulder, leaning against him.

  

 

“It’s really hot today.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Sansa answers blankly, toying with the ends of her long hair.

Loras watches Renly as he sits with Sansa on the boardwalk, trying to be discreet. Well, Sansa doesn’t so much watch as much as she  _broods_  over Joffrey—which Loras doesn’t understand, because he’s just rude and not cool at all. He’s tried explaining how vulgar and uncouth Joffrey is to Sansa, but she refuses to listen. Sansa can most definitely do better, and she shouldn’t be hung up on Joffrey, yet she’s settled for the god awful swine Cersei Lannister has the misfortune of calling her son nonetheless. Sansa Stark is pretty much one of his closest friends, and has been ever since she spilled a wine cooler on his favorite jumper. Well, it wasn’t his _favorite_ , but Grandmother knitted it for him and her spilling her drink on him gave him an excuse to take it off and conveniently lose it at the cleaners’. (Actually, the sweater’s been sitting in the back of his closet for the last year but Grandmother doesn’t need to know that.) They’ve been inseparable ever since. And she was already friends with Margaery, so they all hang out quite often.

Since they were so close, he was privy to a whole lot of things, including the explosive relationship of sorts she had developed with the savage everyone insisted on calling Joffrey Baratheon. Loras feels like _Wife Beater_ is much more appropriate, even if he’s not married to Sansa. (If they were, Loras would have strangled him by now. Even though they’re not married, he’s still brought up beating the crap out of Joffrey. Sansa just looks at him soberly and makes him feel bad for even bringing it up. He really shouldn’t, though, because maybe all Joffrey needs is a good kick or five where his prick is supposed to be—because Loras held the mentality that if you hit a woman, you really aren’t a man in any sense of the word—to teach him a lesson. Or something.)

She wonders softly if it was because she wasn’t pretty enough.

“I mean, maybe if I just looked a little more like Margaery he—”

“ _No_. You’re beautiful,” he insists, “and if Joffrey doesn’t see that it’s his loss, not yours.”

His sister is, for all intents and purposes, a generally decent person, but Sansa is genuinely kind and wondrous. Margaery is too, but it’s all an act for her fans. Not that it’s a bad thing, but it’s just nicer and it feels more natural when Sansa does it. The whole Joffrey thing makes him upset, to put it lightly. But seeing her so torn up about such an idiot makes him feel even worse. It was bad enough that Wife Beater tried putting the moves on Margaery a few months before. Thankfully, he failed because Grandmother stuck her nose in it.

This is getting out of hand.

Loras plots to put an end to all of this ridiculousness at once. Joffrey needs to go ASAP. He’s supposed to be having this wonderful summer with his best friend, and a wonderful summer means flings and silly fun trifles, not moping over some spoiled brat who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. His plan is simple, but it'll hopefully prove to be effective. It involves a ‘mysterious’ accident where Joffrey just falls off the boardwalk and injures himself so severely that he just has to go home. If that doesn’t work, he can just tell Garlan exactly what went down between him and Sansa and wait for him to snap Joffrey in two. That would honestly be more convenient. Then again, telling Jaime is pretty much the same thing, because Jaime is this big crazy anti-domestic violence activist person, and if he catches wind that Sansa’s accident really wasn’t much of an accident after all, there’s no telling what he’ll do.

Loras can’t wait. He’ll have Renly tell Jaime, because Jaime’s cool and all, but the guy’s scary—like Samuel L. Jackson in _Pulp Fiction_ scary—when he’s mad and Loras doesn’t want to deal with that.

It’s going to be perfect. Joffrey will have the crap beat out of him by someone and have to go home, this magic hold he has on Sansa will be lifted, and she’ll be happy again. Loras almost pats himself on the back, except for the fact that he has to account for variables—like what if Jaime doesn’t believe Renly at all? Or what if Garlan decides to get all holier-than-thou and not smash Joffrey’s face into a wall, saying that karma will give him what he deserves in due time? What if?

He has to come up with a better plan, one that won’t fall apart so easily.

But then things change, and Loras finds himself scraping the idea of getting rid of Joffrey altogether.

It's, oddly enough, because of Willas.

He starts doing little things, like asking about Sansa and talking about her and asking Arya and Margaery and Gendry about her. At first, Loras thinks nothing of it (he’s still trying to figure out how to murder Joffrey and make it look accidental) but then Sansa sits with them one day during breakfast and leaves Willas a drooling, sappy mess. (She asked him to pass the syrup and he almost dropped it in her lap because he was so nervous. Love at first sight, obviously.) Willas starts to bring her up casually—well, as casual as someone as awkward as Willas can truly be—in conversation over lunch and dinner when she’s not there. He blushes when Sansa walks into the room, stammers when she says hi (or does anything to acknowledge his existence), and almost faints when she brushes past him one afternoon in the library.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Willas has a crush on Sansa, which is just wonderful because if they start dating—which they will, at some point, even if Loras has to lock them in a closet—they’ll all be able to hang out even more, meaning that he doesn’t have to tell Garlan or do anything (or have Renly deal with an angry Jaime, which is good for everyone). Except that now he’ll need to act like he doesn’t know anything about his brother’s infatuation while at the same time gently guiding him—or pushing him, if need be—into Sansa’s arms and vice versa. Sansa _probably_ likes Willas, and if she doesn’t, Loras can plant the casual seed here and there.

He can start distracting her from Joffrey, start talking about Willas more. (And if the situation still doesn’t improve, seek Margaery’s help—Sansa’s in such a delicate state that Loras is afraid of asking for Garlan’s help, only because she may very well end up wanting to be with Garlan instead of Willas and Leonette Fossoway would kill over her man and Loras knows it. He shudders at the memory of the waitress at The Cheesecake Factory and hopes she wasn’t too badly bruised after Leonette finished with her. Margaery knows Sansa even better than Loras does, and she’ll definitely know what to do. She can help.)

Willas makes it easy with the whole flowers bit, and while Loras prays that his brother doesn’t screw this up—because Willas is great and all, but the boy’s intense and awkward, and too much of both could end up undermining all of Loras’ hard work—Loras sets to casually pick Sansa's brain about Willas. It’s not hard to see that she kind of likes him but just won’t admit it because of Joffrey. Loras has his work cut out for him, obviously. Sansa needs some good old fashioned TLC, and Willas is perfect for the job... or he will be, if he doesn’t screw up, which he’s been known to do royally sometimes.

Loras finds Sansa in the library, reading something that looks very suspiciously like the book he bought Willas for Christmas last year. (He may have hinted at a hardcover copy of _Ulysses_ in the window of Barnes and Noble during one of Loras’ visits to Washington D.C. a few months before. Interesting.)

Sansa glances at him with a raised eyebrow, folding the book on her lap. Her blue eyes play hide and go seek behind her freckled eyelids as she looks at him curiously.

“What’s up?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies smoothly, wriggling his eyebrows at her. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh this? It’s just some book that I’ve been reading,” Sansa says with a faint blush—but he knows her so well that he can still see it, the crimson smattering across her nose and cheeks—looking down at it. “It’s nothing major.”

“ _Ulysses_. That’s Willas’ favorite book, you know. Hm. What a coincidence.”

“Yeah?” She hums, gnawing on her bottom lip. For an actress, Sansa was a terrible liar, but she really couldn't help it. Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully-Stark raised their children with one of the best senses of right and wrong that Loras had ever seen. Being honest was in her nature, and it wasn't hard to tell when she was lying.

“Speaking of Willas, have you seen him lately? I need to talk to him,” Loras says, trying to beat down the grin that threatens to spread on his face.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs and goes back to her book, almost hiding. “Um… you wouldn’t happen to know if he’s, um, seeing someone, right? I mean, it’s _not_ like I care or something. It’s none of my business anyway. You don’t have to tell me. But, I mean, if he is, it'd be cool to know. 'Cause I have a friend I could set him up with, or something, I don't know.” This is going to be easier than he expected. They obviously liked each other and Loras wondered, briefly, why they hadn’t done anything about it.

“Why?”

“I'm just curious,” Sansa says flatly, turning the page in her book without so much as sparing a glance at him. Anyone else would think it really _was_ because she was curious, but he could see her shaking fingers and the shifty way she bit her lip. The only reason she’d be acting like that was because it actually mattered to her and she really wanted to know if Willas was seeing anyone or not. Willas wasn’t and hadn’t been seeing anyone at all since his romp last summer with Nymeria Sand. She was nice and all, but Willas went back to Washington, D.C. and she didn’t like the distance and the fact that he came to California only when he had to (maybe three or four times a year). Oh well.

Loras wriggled his eyebrows at Sansa.

“Someone has a crush.”

“That’s not cute, Loras. Just answer my question.” Sansa huffs and he grins cheekily.

“Sansa’s crushin’!”

“Shut up!” she hisses, leaning over. “What if he’s in here?”

“Who, Willas? Willas!” he exclaims, laughing. “Will—”

Sansa clamps a hand over his mouth and narrows her eyes, half lying on the table. Her blue eyes are stern, copper eyebrows knitted together as her lips curl into a heavy, worried frown. Loras is endeared. If he was straight, he could kiss Sansa. He could.

“Shut. Up.” Sansa obviously cares about Willas, Loras can see that now. He's excited. Happy.

“But how do I tell you about Willas’ super-hot super model girlfriend if you don’t want me to talk?” Loras asks, trying not to laugh at Sansa’s face.

“She’s a supermodel?!” she exclaims, eyes almost bulging out of her face. She sits down and sighs dejected. "What's her name?"

“She doesn't have one because she doesn't exist,” Loras giggles, snickering. Sansa's hand smacks his shoulder as she sinks back into her seat, still frowning. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend, Sansa. This is _Willas_ we’re talking about here.”

“That’s not funny, Loras.” Sansa narrows her blue eyes at him even further, seething. They're two blue slits now, outlined in a thin line of black around the edges of the lids.

“No, but your face right now is.” He wrinkles his nose at her and she huffs, going back to her (Willas’) book. “Why’d you want to know so badly?”

“Because I just do,” she mumbles, sinking into her seat. “You’re gonna be late for dinner, Loras.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m eating later with Ygritte.” She smiles faintly. “Tell Willas I said hi.”

During dinner, Loras sits with Renly (though he would rather sit _on_ Renly) and Jon (except Jon can’t really count because he sits for a minute, and then just throws out his food and leaves when Ygritte finally answers his call—it’s about damn time, seriously). Willas joins them soon after, grinning like a fool. Loras has a feeling he knows why. He tries to not smile, glancing down at his food instead. They served soup and salad and breadsticks for dinner, which is good, but not really filling. Loras makes a note to have Lyanna sneak him something extra before bed.

At some point, he lets his hand fall onto Renly’s lap, fingers brushing the insides of his thighs.

Renly stiffens and sits up straight, cheeks taking on that not-quite-red, not-exactly-pink shade as Loras skims his hand higher. Loras doesn’t know what the name for that color is, but he loves it all the same, the way that shade creeps bashfully onto Renly’s scruffy cheeks. (Renly’s taken to not shaving lately. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s getting lazy or what, but Loras doesn’t quite mind either way. It feels good on his cheek, and his hand, and the rest of his body too, though it leaves a slight burn. He's learning to come to terms with it.) He shoots Loras a look, one that he’s seen before, chastising but only half way. This only means that Loras has to keep it up, because Renly is strangely attractive and amusing when he’s all riled up, and Loras loves it.

There’s lots of things Loras _likes_ about Renly, like his very closely cropped brown hair and the shape of his jaw, and the set to his eyes, and the slope of his nose, the dusting of freckles over his shoulders and back, how he speaks very slowly and quietly. He has a drawl from somewhere that isn't _here_ , though whenever Loras asks about his home, in the dead of night when they're all wrapped up on his bed, Renly never directly answers his question. Loras even likes that, his not-always-evasive-but-still-occasionally-so way of answering him when there's something he doesn't want to talk about. The way Renly eats, even, how he savors everything and seems...  _happy_. He's genuinely happy, and Loras isn't sure he's ever met someone who is. Even though he doesn't like cigarettes, Loras even likes the way Renly looks when he’s smoking secretly behind the cabin, and the wayhe smiles shyly all the time, the way Renly hates the Lannisters as much he does—just Renly _in general_ sets a bunch of butterflies loose and makes Loras feel like he’s floating.

But Renly doesn’t need to know that right now.

Loras leans forward and props his head up on his free hand.

“Hey.” Willas clears his throat a little, sniffling as he shifts in his seat. “I need advice, you guys.”

“What’s wrong?” Robb asks, looking all concerned (and mildly pouty, but he’s got nothing on Loras—or Renly, if he’s in the right kind of mood, one more thing that Loras likes about him) and worried.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just, um, well,” he mumbles. Loras giggles and Willas narrows his eyes at him, scowling. “It’s about this… girl. I just need some advice. I really like her but I don't know what to do.”

“A girl, eh?” Loras asks, leaning over to wriggle his eyebrows at his older brother, who’s having none of it. "What's she like?"

“I didn’t think I was talking to you,” he says curtly and Loras winces, wrinkling his nose at him.

“Someone’s sassy today,” he mumbles, leaning back in chair.

Willas’ new found infatuation with Sansa has given him a tiny jolt of confidence. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the sass is so not appreciated. He bites into the peach from his tray and keeps his hand on Renly’s thigh, nearing the waist of his shorts. He’s unbuckled Renly’s belt before he even knows what hit him, trying to keep the grin off his face. When Loras starts tugging at his zipper, Renly shoots him another look—which goes ignored, because Loras really can’t take Renly seriously most of the time. Seriously. It’s impossible. He licks his lips free of the juice from the peach, humming softly as he takes another bite.

“And since you’re obviously a ladies’ man, Renly—”

Loras laughs so hard he almost falls off the chair, gasping and tearing up between giggles. He doesn't want to laugh, not really, but he can't help himself. Renly? A ladies' man? Right. Renly looks at Willas with a contained smile, brushing their fingers together under the table. Affectionate Renly rarely makes an appearance in private, much less in a room full of people, where Stannis is sitting a table away with the awful red woman who looks at Renly like he’s on display at a meat market. Loras looks at Renly and tries to quiet his laughter, breathing deeply.

_Renly._

_A ladies’ man._

Okay, _so what_ if girls like Renly— _Loras_ likes Renly—why not? He’s wonderful, young, smart, attractive, and really great, so what was there not to like? (And he’s a lifeguard and a sweetheart and had a penchant for not wearing a shirt when he was outdoors, okay, sure. Even Margaery has a crush on him—and hasn’t made any attempts to hide it, much to Loras’ annoyance. But Renly Baratheon’s not a ladies’ man—hell, Loras isn’t sure if he’s his man. What is it? He doesn’t know if he wants to know, but a small tiny part of him wants to just know. But what if Renly wants this to be some casual meaningless fling? Loras doesn’t know what he wants and it scares him. But summer’s barely begun and he can just think and be afraid and panic later.)

“What?” Willas asks, clueless and oblivious as he looks at them. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing,” Renly murmurs, laughing softly.

“Well, I was just, er, wondering what to do because her boyfriend’s a pain. Except he’s not really her boyfriend anymore, I think? I don’t know. It’s complicated.” He looks at them again, frowning. “I—I just—I think she can do better than him.”

“With you,” Loras supplies.

“Well, no, not necessarily. She could, ideally, be happy with anyone—” Renly raises an eyebrow at both the Tyrells’—Loras keeps touching him and Willas is obviously lying. “Okay, yes. Me. It’s me. I want her to choose me, but she won’t because—”

“Not with that attitude—”

Renly tries to keep himself grounded in the chair, biting the inside of his cheek harshly. Loras is smug, smirking into his peach as he slips his hands over Renly’s boxers. He’s the only other person Loras knows who wears silk boxers. Renly Baratheon is nothing if not a classy young man, and classy young men take their underwear seriously. (Like Renly.) Once, just for giggles, he asked Renly why he didn’t wear normal cotton boxers or briefs like everyone else. His response? “Because I like the feel of silk on my butt, man. It’s nice.” And Renly wonders why Loras refuses to take him seriously.

He really sets himself up for these situations, walking around here in those tight shirts and the damn shorts and he just was _so damn attractive_ and his refusal to shave (and even when he shaved, good Lord). What was Loras supposed to do?

“Not with that attitude, Will,” he manages to grit out, taking a deep breath. His friendship with Willas is endearing, Loras thinks. Renly is what Willas wants to be (and just the _only_ thing Loras wants—right now). “You just need to be positive,” he says, stabbing some string beans forcefully with his fork as he takes a deep breath. “Be yourself—” Loras keeps his smile hidden as Renly fans himself with a napkin, huffing. He dabs the juice from his peach with the back of his free hand, sparing poor Renly a look. It's kind of cute, and Loras would actually feel kind of bad if it wasn't so funny. Renly is mortified, which only makes it better.

“Is it hot? I feel like it’s really, really hot in here,” Renly says suddenly, sighing deeply, cheeks very vibrantly that shade—rose, maybe?—that they always are. “I—I’m sorry, Will. It’s just so—god, it’s so warm in here, you know? I—tomorrow I will be more than happy to help you out with this girl thing, really, I just—I’m not feeling very good right now. Sorry, man.” He smiles softly, pushing Loras’ hand away gently. He quickly does up his trousers, then goes to buckle the belt. Loras frowns a little and goes back to his food, eating his peach slowly. “I’ll see you kids later.”

And with that Renly  walks out of the cafeteria with shorts that are probably extremely uncomfortable, readjusting himself as discreetly as possible. Loras grins, laughing quietly as he finishes the peach. He leaves the stone on the table, eying Renly as he leaves. He's probably really in for it, but it's worth it. It always is.

“Is Renly sick?” Willas asks, concerned. “Should we go see if he’s alright? Maybe we should go see Ygritte.”

“Yeah, I’ll go. He’s been kind of funny all day. You just go seduce Sansa away from Joffrey,” Loras quips softly, picking up his tray.

“What?!” Willas exclaims. “I don’t know what—you’re being crazy! I’m not _seducing_ anyone!”

Loras chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. Willas is too easy to read, even if he does spend most of the year away at school. He knows Willas like the back of his hand and it only makes sense that he likes Sansa. She’s perfect for him, except for that small Joffrey problem, which Loras feels could be easily fixed by snapping his arm him half to see how he likes it. Gendry and Garlan are still working on that one. (Loras has to tell Garlan, because of course everyone’s going to expect Gendry to do it. This is just in case Sansa is still hung up on Joffrey. Gendry has that whole degenerate thing going for him, but not Garlan. No. Garlan Tyrell is just the exemplary youth that every young man wishes he could be—or something stupid like that. Everyone thinks Garlan’s a sweetheart because of the movie he did with Leonette—Loras’ idea—but no. The kid’s great and all, but sometimes he can be worse than Gendry and Wife Beater combined, if you get him mad enough.)

Silly boys.

Still, none of them hold a candle to how silly Renly Baratheon can be if he really, really wants to be. Like now, for example, like no one would notice him rushing out of the mess hall with a hard on. Idiot. Renly thinks that they’re all blind and deaf and mute (like his old housekeeper).

Loras manages to sneak into the cabin without much difficulty, mostly because Cersei is still sick and in bed, Robert is busy with Lyanna Stark in the kitchens, Jaime and Robb are still in the mess hall, and Jon is off trying to win back his girlfriend. (Ygritte kind of does have a point, though. Jon _does_ hang out with Dany a lot, but it might very well be nothing at all. Or it might be something. If Daenerys is anything like her brother, then she’s crazy and could very well be trying to screw Jon’s brains out. But then again, Loras isn’t one to talk, considering his current predicament.)

The only person who really even counts is Renly (lately), and after a quick run around downstairs, Loras figures that Renly has to be upstairs. It’s not hard to figure out whose room is whose. Cersei’s next to Jaime, Robert’s across from Cersei, Jon is across from Robb, and Renly is across from Jaime. Robb’s room is next to the bathroom. The open door lets the scent of Renly’s aftershave—aftershave, for crying out loud—and body wash drift into the hallway.

Has he been using Old Spice again?

Loras creeps down the hallway, trying not to laugh (if he wakes up Cersei it’ll be the end of both him and Renly) as he nears Renly’s door. It isn’t locked—when is it ever?—so he opens it as quietly as can be and slips inside, locking it behind him. Renly’s standing in front of the closet, sniffing at a shirt white with a towel wrapped around his waist. Loras sneaks up behind him—either Loras is really quiet or Renly’s practically deaf—wrapping his arms around him.

“Hi.” He presses a kiss to the center of Renly's damp neck, sniffing him discreetly. He smells so good, so... soft and still strong and Loras just  _wants_ him, now. He's been saying no for days and Loras is literally crawling out of his skin. Renly looks at him in the mirror and Loras grins back at him, settling his cheek against his shoulder. He knows that face—he knows most of Renly’s faces by now—the whole, _I’m pretending to be mad at you but I’m really not and in like, three seconds, I’m going to screw your brains out_ face. It’s one of his favorites. “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed,” Renly answers, laughing. “Obviously. I have a dissertation I need to work on, Lo. Aren't you supposed to be eating dinner?” With one fluid motion Loras has ripped off Renly’s towel, grinning madly when he blushes and tries to reach out for the material now hanging proudly in Loras' hand, out of Renly's reach. "Loras, c'mon. I have to get dressed, soon. And you shouldn't be here, someone could find you - "

“Don’t seem very dressed to me.”

“You’re not funny, Loras.” His tone is simple, like he's speaking to a child, and Loras glares at him for a moment. He'll be seventeen in a few weeks. Renly is only a few years his senior but he's acting like he's old enough to be his father, and it makes him irritated. 

“I’m not trying to be, Renly.” Loras' tone mimics Renly as he noses at him, lips pressing small kisses to his skin. He doesn't miss how Renly shivers, or how his mouth parts. He smiles and kisses his temple, laughing a little against him. 

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m throwing myself at you.” Renly shoots him a look, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Loras' hand looks tan against Renly's pasty skin - even in all the sun, in all the swimming, all the running, Renly's skin has stubbornly decided to not absorb any color at all. He's gotten a few reluctant freckles against the planes of his back and a couple on his belly, but that's it. “I’ll keep it down this time, I promise,” he murmurs softly, stroking his length slowly. He thumbs at the leaking tip, pressing more kisses against his cheek and jaw. Loras' hand finds an easy rhythm against the solid, warm flesh, cheeks a little pink. “I swear.”

“ _No_. And even if we did, you wouldn’t,” he says, a fond smile on his face. He relaxes back into Loras' body, but not quite.

Renly wants to do this whole _let’s get to know each other_ thing because they _might_ have ended up going at it like animals on the floor of his bedroom on Loras’ second day here two or three times (and subsequently every time they saw each other for the next five days) or something. How could Loras help himself? Renly was in the middle of getting dressed, and Loras... well. He saw an opportunity and he took it. But it’s not like Loras meant for it to happen. He came to the cabin to complain about Viserys being a jerk—with only mildly sexual thoughts about Renly—and Renly was just… perfect and Loras was bored and it was hot and whatever, what happened obviously happened. (What happened was that Renly literally gave Loras the best sex of his life, point blank. He didn't know it could feel that good, but it did, and now that he knows, he wants more.) Loras doesn’t regret it, not at all, and Renly claims not to either, but he still wants to _wait_.

Loras just wants to be with him already but Renly isn’t having it.

“I know you want me,” Loras coaxes, using his free hand to start shedding his own clothing. Renly turns around, carding a hand through Loras' curls. He kisses his forehead, gentle. 

“I don’t.”

“Liar,” Loras laughs, kissing his cheek. He squeezes the throbbing shaft in his hands as though to prove his point. “You’re a bad, bad liar, Renly Baratheon.”

“Loras, we shouldn’t—”

“But we should,” he insists, kissing him properly. Loras is close, he’s so damn close—and then Cersei Lannister has to ruin it. He hasn’t been with Renly properly in almost two weeks and he’s just about ready to strangle someone. The Lannisters are horrible people. They’re always ruining things. If it’s not Joffrey, it’s his mother.

“Renly!” she shrieks, slamming her fist on the door. Loras has convinced himself that none of the Lannisters are or have ever been capable of speaking at a normal decibel. He doesn’t think this racket is really necessary, but since when do people ask Loras what he thinks? If the world worked the way he wanted it to, he’d currently be tangled up in Renly, Willas and Sansa would be together, and his parents would probably accept him for who he is. But things aren't the way he’d like them to be—he’s not tangled up in Renly, Willas and Sansa are not at all together (and she’s not happy anymore), and if he ever dared to tell his parents that he’s not their perfect little straight son, they’ll both die of heart attacks and disown him. So he’ll sneak around and hide, living his life in the shadows. Renly understands, yet another thing about him that Loras likes. “For heavens' sake!”

“Crap,” Loras and Renly mumble at the same time. Loras ducks behind the bed—but not while watching Renly get dressed first, because even if they might be busted, Renly’s still naked, and he might as well enjoy it while he can. When he opens the door, clothes sticking to his still damp body, Cersei is not a happy camper.

“What’s up, Cersei?” Renly asks, trying to be moderately cheerful. She doesn’t bother to return the greeting. Cersei Lannister is a happiness vacuum.

“Robert is still trying to charm the pants off that Leann girl or whatever her name is—”

“Lyanna?”

Lyanna Stark is, oddly enough, Sansa’s aunt. (Ned Stark’s parents are still kind of young and Lyanna is their youngest child, only a year or so older than Sansa.) She’s pretty cool, sometimes. She’s like Arya and Sansa, adventurous and somewhat serious all at the same time. Lyanna is pretty, though, but Loras doesn’t think that she and Robert are anything but friends. He’s got at least twenty years on her or so. Cersei scowls. According to Renly, she happens to dislike Lyanna more than she dislikes most of the women younger and generally more beautiful than she is.

“Whatever, Renly,” she says thickly. She's got a cold. “My point is that I don’t think he’s making dinner for us tonight. Robb’s going out with his girlfriend—”

“Jeyne’s not his girlfriend,” Renly deadpans. (It’s an issue, this whole Jeyne and Robb thing, because apparently Robb really likes Jeyne and won’t make a move and Jeyne probably likes Robb back and Renly’s about had it with the both of them.)

“Don’t interrupt me. Rude,” she says rudely. He can almost see her flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Anyway, Jaime can’t cook and there’s no way I’m cooking for all of you. That Shae girl is weird and I don't trust her, and Ygritte left early and Jon’s all, Ygritte take me back—horrifically pathetic, I know—so—”

“I’m not cooking,” he says, putting a hand on the door. Loras doesn’t know why Renly doesn’t want to. Renly can _totally_ cook—probably (Loras can’t think of anything Renly can’t do because, well, he’s Renly Baratheon)—and he finds himself getting carried away with thoughts of Renly in an apron and not much else.

“Why the—” She stops. “It smells like roses in here, Renly.” She wriggles her eyebrows at him. “Got a girl in here?” She pokes her head in and Loras hits the floor, hiding near the side of the bed not visible from the door. Just because his hair is luxuriously shiny and curly and just ridiculous, it doesn’t make him a girl. He rather likes being a boy, thank you very much. “Well, whatever. It’s none of my business. If you’re not gonna cook, at least buy us some take out.”

“If you’re so hungry, buy your own damn take out.”

Renly’s extra cheeky today—Loras teasing him coupled with having to deal with a sick Cersei can do that to a person—and isn’t having any of Cersei’s sass.

Renly doesn’t like Cersei, but that’s a long story.

(Loras is sneaky and so is Grandmother Tyrell, and one carefully placed phone call lets him know the following: Renly doesn’t like Cersei because Cersei and Robert were together a long time ago and had a fling of sorts, the fruits of which were Joffrey, Myrcella, a sweetheart, and Tommen, a cat obsessed eight year old who hates beets—Grandmother babysits a lot—and she completely tore the Baratheon family apart. But Loras doesn’t understand how any of the Baratheon children can really be Robert’s children. Loras hates Cersei, but even he has to admit that she’s a babe now—and that’s after three kids—and Robert’s definitely let himself go. The kids looked more Lannister than everything else, and Cersei was really, really close to Jaime… but ew, no. Cersei wouldn’t. Jaime wouldn’t. _Ew_.)

“I’m not _asking_ you to, Renly. I’m telling you.”

“And I’m _telling_ you I’m not going to, Cersei. Tell Jaime to do it.”

“He’s still on lifeguard duty. Don’t be such a jerk, Renly,” she huffs. He can almost see how she pouts and angles her chest towards him coquettishly. Loras reminds himself that Cersei’s crazy and desperate and can’t help but to come on to every man she encounters.

“How are we supposed to get the take out guy past Stannis? You know they’ll have to get past the office to make it here.”

He peeks around the edge of the bed. Renly’s got his hip to the side, fingers drumming on the door frame. Ooh. Angry Renly’s always interesting.

“Then walk your butt down to the office and wait for the guy to come before Stannis and that red freak see them, damn it. I’m sure your little girlfriend or whoever can wait.”

After a bit of angry, sullen silence, Renly relents.

“Fine,” he grumbles. Loras hears a rustling that sounds like paper. A list? A take out menu? 

“You’re a doll, Renly. Thanks.” She shuffles down to her room and Renly sneers, flipping her off. “I saw that. Right back at ya, buddy,” she says before shutting her door lightly.

Loras positively hates Cersei Lannister.

She’s the main reason why he’s not getting any.

Well, Renly is too, but still.

Renly kisses Loras again and combs his fingers through his hair, and promises that they'll be able to spend time together soon. Loras takes that at face value, because he always trusts Renly, implicitly. He's his sunshine. Sneaking out isn’t a problem, no. It’s the not getting caught part that’s tricky. He runs into Jaime—of course he does—on his way out. _Oh god_.

Cersei doesn’t have anything on Jaime, man. Cersei’s crazy but mildly docile, whereas Jaime is all crazy, all the time. (And according to Renly he goes off, like, a lot.) Loras stops in his tracks, praying to whoever’s listening that Jaime pass him by without so much as a glance. It seems that none one’s listening, because Jaime calls out to him and clamps a heavy hand on his back.

“Loras! What brings you by?”

“Um… nothing. I was just, um, looking for Renly, but he’s kind of indisposed right now.” He smiles and makes to move past Jaime, but it seems little Jaime isn’t having this.

“I need a favor.” It’s just _not_ Loras’ day today. “Cersei’s not feeling too sharp and she has an appointment tomorrow. I’m taking her because her car’s still in the shop. So I need someone to cover for me. I’m on lifeguard duty.”

“And Robb and Jon can’t do this because…?”

“Their parents are visiting tomorrow so they have the day off, sort of.” Loras doesn’t like helping Jaime, but if it means that Cersei will be out of his hair tomorrow, why not? He nods grudgingly. “You need to be at the lake at eight.”

“But the swimming thing doesn’t start until, like, nine.” Loras likes sleeping in, and having Renly as a counselor means that he usually gets to do so until ten or eleven. It takes him like an hour to get ready—he’s good, but he’s not that good—so he’ll probably have to wake up at half past six or something. He grunts and grumbles the whole way home.

The following morning, Loras finds himself sitting on the high chair on the beach, wearing Renly’s lifeguard tank top—if Jaime asks it’s going to be a complete coincidence—at eight on the dot, scowling at the rising sun. It’s too bright and it’s almost unnatural to be out here this early. His sunglasses are perched on his nose, but he still feels like he's melting. It’s quiet for the most part, except for the birds in the forest and the occasional bee or dragonfly. The sun is warm and sticky and for a moment he worries about Willas—this kind of weather really aggravates his nosebleeds—but when the chair creaks underneath him, he thinks of why he’s here in the first place. He hates Jaime Lannister and his stupid sister and her angry son. He hates all three of them and hopes they lead very miserable, dark, angry lives far away from him and everyone he loved.

“Loras?” He looks down, only to see Renly—who _really_ needs to start wearing a shirt if he’s not going to fool around with Loras—looking up at him with a frown. “What are you—” He laughs. “Get down from there. You're going to hurt yourself.”

“No. I have to wait for Jaime. He said he was going to teach me the art of lifeguarding. Mouh to mouth resuscitation and all,” Loras wriggles his eyebrows, grinning. Lifeguarding with Renly was a perk, at least. “Isn’t he coming?”

“Did you put him up to this?” Renly asks, narrowing his eyes at him. Loras looks offended. “You would. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.”

“Me? _Desperate_? No. For what?” Yes. “This is a complete coincidence, honestly. Anyway, I’m guessing Jaime isn’t coming if he’s not here yet,” Loras says dismissively. “Teach me your ways, oh wise one.”

“Is that my shirt?”

“Is it?” Loras grins. “I guess it is.” He climbs off the chair carefully, and lands on the sand softly, groaning a little. He raises his eyebrows at Renly impishly. “What are you gonna do about it?”

They kind of end up tossing around in the sand, and Loras ends up looking down at Renly, trying not to smile. He looks up at him with those damn eyes—blue and green all rolled up in one—and smirks.

“I thought you said you’d let me top.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys, really? ugh. i love all of you and thanks so much for all the love and support and everything else this story's getting from all of you. it means a lot, so keep it coming!


	6. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not supposed to be like this. She isn't Sansa, with her weird love triangles with Willas and Joffrey and her whole damsel in distress thing. She isn't Loras, horrifically in love with Renly Baratheon, of all people. And she's not Brienne, either, half in love with Renly and half in love with Jaime too. She's Arya Stark, damn it. She should be stronger than this, but she's not. Who would have known that Gendry actually had feelings?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited. Now jam packed with 100% more sass.

“What are you staring at?” Gendry asks, rubbing some sunscreen on his neck. Arya smiles and shakes her head, pushing some of her hair out of her face. She’s supposed to be getting ready to meet her parents, who are going to be here any minute. She would much rather sit and soak up the sun with Gendry instead. His mother isn’t coming and he doesn’t have anything better to do anyway, so he sits on the shore and waits the visit out. He doesn’t mind. Arya’s parents are coming, and while she wants to see her father, her mother is another story. She’d like to avoid her if she can help it.

So she sits on the lonely beach with Gendry instead.

“I’m not staring at anything,” she insists, laughing. “I’m just thinking, stupid.” He rolls his eyes and plays with the back of her hand, easy, light, and carefree, like he always is. Arya smiles.

She meets Gendry by accident. Most of the things that happen in her life are no mere accidents—she’s too controlled for that—but this is. And thankfully, it’s one of life’s happier ones. 

After being cornered in an dark alleyway on her way home from Sacred Heart Prep—her mother’s idea of a good school and Arya’s idea of hell on Earth—and mugged (during election season no less, so she secretly thinks that most of her father’s votes were more out of sympathy than anything else), she makes Jon pay for her to take a MMA class. She thinks her mother will become suspicious if she asks for six month advances on her allowance, and since Jon goes to school and does the occasional indie film with the Martell girls and some Northern girls but doesn’t really make all that much, it will raise no eyebrows if he asks their father to spot him some extra cash. 

Arya Stark is afraid of no one, and she’ll be damned if she’ll live her life in fear because some of some spineless cowards who got their rocks off by trying to rape innocent girls in the middle of the night. She swears to herself as she puts ice on her cheek that night that if she ever finds any of them—she’s committed their faces to memory—she’ll rip off their balls and force feed it to them. 

Scout’s honor.

But to do that she needs to learn how to fight, and unfortunately her prep school education and the etiquette classes her mother made her take before fancy dinners with this or that politician and their families didn’t quite prepare her to protect herself against those who would like to hurt her.

Syrio Forel is her instructor, a small, lithe man with a lilting accent and easy smile. 

“Show me what you’ve got,” are his first words to her, flexing his fingers with a cheerful grin. Arya smiles, laughing quietly. She can’t fight, but she has two older brothers, plus Rickon (not Bran, not anymore) so she knows a thing or two about roughhousing. It’s not that easy. Even though he seems harmless, he has her pinned to the wall in three seconds flat. 

“You cannot underestimate your opponent, Arya. Be swift—because fear cuts deeper than swords, my child. For the night is dark and full of terrors, and you never know what’s lurking behind the corner, ready to take you by surprise. You need to be ready for whoever thinks you will not be and show them all how very wrong they are about you.”

Arya trains relentlessly for weeks after that, taking a bus to the run down parlor every day after school. Her mother thinks she’s meeting up with a math tutor. Her father probably knows but doesn’t say anything if he does, so Arya doesn’t tell him. Robb makes fun of her bruises, until she punches him in the shoulder so hard she actually bruises him. Sansa doesn’t care and tells her not to do anything stupid with that condescending little sneer of hers. Bran thinks it’s kind of cool, and Rickon usually spends his time napping or being a little menace so she doesn’t think he has an opinion on it. Arya keeps to herself and doesn’t really talk to any of the other boxers because she likes the anonymity and would rather not have everyone either swarming around her or avoiding her like the plague because she’s Arya Stark. As far as anyone else knows, her name’s Cat, just Cat, and she likes it that way. It’s not so bad, being invisible. 

She only fights with Syrio and comes so close to beating him—“Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, Cat!”—but never actually succeeds. She trains with a punching bag afterwards, lifts weights, and when she gets home, practices with Jon and sometimes Robb, if he’s not too tired from working at the shelter. He runs a shelter for battered women along with Jaime Lannister (she spits at the name now because of his nephew, Joffrey Baratheon, the boy who hit Sansa and broke her heart because he couldn’t deal with his own insecurities).

Syrio’s right, after all. The night is dark and pretty scary, especially the neighborhood where the parlor’s at, and she should probably be ready to fend for herself against the occasional assaliant. It’s only a matter of time before someone tries to hurt her again. This time she’ll be ready.

Between her breaks, she watches the occasional match, studying how they move silently, making note of every jab and kick and punch and how carefully and forcefully they’re delivered. The smaller ones, like herself, have a slight advantage because larger ones tire themselves out too quickly and end up getting beat up by people half their size. They are quick, but not quick enough. One day Syrio puts her in a ring with a boy, who’s wearing his helmet and putting in a mouth guard when she steps in. 

He’ll need it.

“Ready, Cat?” He grins and Arya just looks at him coldly, already annoyed. This should be interesting. Despite his size, all sinew and muscles and sweat, he puts up a pretty good fight, and for the first time, she thinks she might just lose to someone besides Syrio after all.

Float like a butterfly.

She dodges him and tucks and rolls to the other end. Let him get tired, let him get dizzy and annoyed and just give up, and then I’ll strike, she thinks. Except he doesn’t get tired, dizzy, or annoyed, nor does he give up.

Sting like a bee.

“I can do this all day,” he taunts.

“Good for you.”

A crowd has gathered by now, egging the boy—Gendry—on. Of course, no one else knows her, but they will, soon enough. She knows of him, this so-called Gendry. She’s seen him fight and he’s a bit better than most (only a bit). He wins some and loses others, but does more of the former than the latter. And then there’s the big pink elephant in the room—his mother kind of slept with Robert Baratheon while he was with Cersei Lannister, the fruit of which was Gendry. Of course, that was speculation until Arya actually met Gendry. He was a dead ringer for Robert—with his black hair, big blue eyes, the dimpled grin, the strong face. Everything about him screamed Baratheon.

Arya doesn’t care. If anything, being a Baratheon made him one of three things—a drunk who liked to fool around with anything that moved, a stiff, austere man who had no personality, or an easy going, laid back sort of guy who didn’t take much of anything seriously. She likes to think he’s more like Renly. Most of her encounters with Renly have been, if nothing else, enjoyable and amusing, and that’s what Gendry appears to be like. Well, from afar, anyway. 

The blow she narrowly dodges shocks her back to reality, and she remembers that she’s supposed to be fighting him.

Patience is a virtue.

“I’m not playing ring around the rosy with you, Cat. Do something, bro!” he says, laughing. He won’t be laughing for long. He swings at her again and Arya has had enough of these games. He’s probably one of those guys who think girls can’t fight and that they’re harmless little creatures who need someone to defend them because they can’t do it for themselves (like Sansa). And granted, she doesn’t look like much of a girl with her stringy hair and flat chest, but still, it’s infuriating and insulting, and Arya’s had enough for one day. It takes one forceful round kick to the face to have him on his back. She steps on his chest, peering down at him as Syrio counts to ten.

“I’m not playing ring around the rosy with you either. And it’s Arya Stark to you, bro.” She throws her helmet down at him and leaves the ring, tearing her gloves off as she walks into the locker room. She can hear the hoots and calls from the main room, grinning to herself as she changes into a pair of black sweatpants and one of Robb’s old UCLA sweatshirts. (Jeyne’s cooking was making him a little chubby, which meant that he couldn’t fit into some of his older clothes.)

If she can take on Gendry, she can take on anyone, which she’ll definitely need, seeing as it’s campaign season again. For some reason, her father just isn’t a man people like very much. She doesn’t know why. It’s not his fault the new mayor is crazy. He has to give him advice—it’s his job. If the mayor won’t listen, it’s not her dad’s fault. He can’t make him do anything. She shakes her head and finishes getting dressed so she can avoid the flood of testosterone on its way there.

“Bye, Syrio!” she calls out as she balances her bag on her shoulder, keeping her gloves around her neck. She feels like a champ today. Robb is sitting in the car down the street—inconspicuous, yes, good—hiding behind a newspaper, sunglasses, and a hat. Being a Stark in Los Angeles, it didn’t take long before one learned how to blend in with a crowd or by oneself to avoid being attacked by the press. It’s something Arya learned early and practiced with her trips to Syrio’s place.

She’s pulling a navy blue NYPD hat on her wet hair when a hand clamps down on her shoulder. She reacts automatically, wrenching the hand off and twisting it so far that any farther will snap it clean off.

“Easy, easy,” the boy laughs, holding up his other hand in surrender. She eyes him for a second before recognizing him—the boy from the ring.

Gendry Waters. Or Gendry Baratheon? Had Robert ever claimed him? Arya tried to remember conversations between her parents that involved Gendry, but the only one she could remember was the one where her mother talked about how horrible it was that Robert was letting that poor woman raise their son all by herself. Her father replied that it was so much deeper than that, and that she didn’t understand so she couldn’t judge him. But Arya understood perfectly. Robert didn’t want to mess up his chances of being mayor, and telling the world you cheated on your pregnant wife with some nameless, insignificant woman wouldn’t exactly help. Robert Baratheon was nothing if not a selfish man.

“Up for round two so soon?” she asks, tucking the flyaway hairs behind her ear. “You know I’ll only kick your butt again.”

“Actually I wanted to congratulate you on fighting so well. You definitely don’t fight like a girl.” She raises an eyebrow, daring him to finish that sentence silently and give her a reason to beat him up again. “Not to say that girls can’t fight, ’cause you obviously can and I—” He stops himself. “Anyway, congrats.”

“Thank you,” she says flippantly, moving past him. Robb owes her a milkshake and she’s not about to let him forget it.

“But your form needs work, Arya. You’re too sloppy, too slow—you’re all over the place,” Gendry says, as if to ignore the fact that Arya just wants to leave. 

“I beat you, didn’t I?” She doesn’t turn around, willing the boy to just go inside and leave her alone before the vultures called the press swarm in on them and blind them with flashes from cameras and questions. It was only a matter of time before everyone figured out her little secret, after all.

“But that’s just me. Someone else will prey on that.” She stays silent. “I could help you, if you want. I mean, this whole boxing bit is cute and all, but I doubt—” She turns around and pushes him against the wall, scowling at him.

“What? I’m not trying to be cute. Don’t act like you know me. Does it look like I'm trying to be cute to you?” Arya narrows her eyes at him. She looks pretty boyish today. She's actually trying to go for menacing, or at least project a ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ kind of attitude, with the hat and old jeans and scruffy boots, but Gendry sees right through it—through her. He always has, the bastard (no pun intended). He flips her against the wall, his meaty hands on either side of her face. He drops them when she shoves him, but doesn't move. 

“You keep leaving yourself open. Someone could do some serious damage if you keep doing that, and I doubt they’ll pity you because you’re a girl and so damn tiny. If you decide you want my help after all, I’ll be here Saturday morning at six.”

“Early much?”

“Early bird gets the worm.” He wriggles his eyebrows and Arya finally manages to shove past him, stalking towards Robb’s car. She slams the door shut and scowls at nothing in particular, crossing her arms across her chest.

“What was that all about?”

“He’s just a stupid boy,” Arya grumbles.

Yet Arya finds herself in the gym with said stupid boy that Saturday morning, fighting and yelling and cursing as loudly as she wants becuase no one's there that early on a weekend but them. She likes Gendry—not romantically, she’s no Sansa, believes not in princes in shining armor, falls not for the prim and proper boys their mother weaves carefully in conversation over dinner, ever so sly—because unlike the other boys Syrio has her fight over the week, he’s not afraid to hit her back. All the other boys think she’ll break and start screaming bloody murder if they so much as think about laying a finger on her, which makes beating them easy but not really satisfying. It's not fair. If they put up a fight, like Gendry, for example, it’s a little better. 

Gendry doesn’t care that her father could be the next mayor or that he’s in politics or that her mother is vying to be Mother Theresa or anything like that. He doesn’t care about where she’s from or who she is and just respects her as a person, which is all she’s ever really wanted. Everyone else only sees her family’s money and name and power, but they never see Arya. Except for Gendry.

By the end of it, they both have bloody, swollen lips and bruises scattered all over their bodies. Arya laughs when he tosses her an ice pack, and smiles when he asks her if she feels up for a burger.

The flush on her face is from their session and nothing more, she reminds herself sternly.

Nothing more.

She is no Sansa and will never be Sansa, and she’s prided herself on that. She will never be at the mercy of some irrelevant boy’s opinion of her—she’s her own savior, her own light in the darkness, and she’ll always be that way. Gendry respects that, and over a batch of greasy fries and half burnt hamburgers that still manage to be horribly delicious, tells her that he thinks it’s kind of cool. Arya likes being cool. In Gendry’s eyes anyway, because it means that he sees her like an equal, neither superior nor inferior. That’s rare.

Syrio’s lessons help, of course they do, but Gendry’s lessons are the ones she finds herself looking forward to for reasons she will never ever admit out loud, because if she does it’ll make her somewhat, if not entirely, like Sansa, and that is something she's tried very hard to avoid at all costs. Their friendship grows over the next few weeks. She smiles and laughs and blushes—once, it was only once and he didn’t even see it so it’s not like it counts—when she’s with him and hates herself for it. 

It’s a stupid crush, nothing more. It's a phase. It’s that nothing more mentality that helps her make it through and makes her think that it’ll go away eventually. It has to. It will, and she just has to wait it out. It’s just some weird girly phase, right? Right? She doesn’t care about him that way, she tells herself, because she’s Arya and he’s Gendry and she doesn’t think they could ever be Arya and Gendry. And it’s not like he likes her anyway so it doesn’t matter.

Arya Stark doesn’t care about what Gendry Waters does or doesn’t do or who he does it with.

That changes when she sees a girl waiting outside for him one day, practically beaming when she sees him. Arya can feel her heart squeezing violently in her chest, her eyes burning when he hugs her tightly to his chest and calls her, “Babe.” She's never been jealous, not really, not until right now anyway. 

She's livid, and the fact that she's so angry only makes her more upset.

Gendry kisses the girl, and the act, simple and innocuous in practice, makes her furious for reasons she doesn’t understand. It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss! He’s mentioned a girl once or twice in passing and Arya thought nothing of it—she was just some girl that he talked to. Apparently, that's not the case at all and they are obviously more than friends. You don’t kiss your friends. At least, Gendry doesn’t kiss Arya, and they’re just friends. Arya might think about kissing him while reading Romeo and Juliet in her English class. Seeing Gendry kiss some other girl makes her skin itch.

“Arya, this is Katya,” he says by way of introduction, arm wrapped around her waist. He smiles at Arya, so proud and happy. What’s he waiting for? Her approval? It doesn’t matter if she approves or not. She’ll be his girlfriend regardless of whether or not Arya likes her, and Arya is well aware of that. 

Katya is beautiful, there’s no way to get around it, with her big green eyes and pretty black hair spilling over her evenly tanned shoulders. She’s got a real chest and legs and she’s so curvy and tall, unlike Arya, who’s all pale dry skin and bones and lean muscle and tiny, like a sparrow. Her shirt is at least three sizes too tight and hot pink and barely reaches her waist, a silver bar resting in her belly button. Her shorts are two sizes too small and she wears dainty little sandals on her perfectly manicured feet. Arya’s shirt is white and baggy underneath this old sweatshirt, and she has to tuck her sweatpants into her boots because they’re too long on her small frame. Her hat hides her dull brown hair and part of her forehead away. 

Katya is delicate in feminine everywhere that Arya is hard and unladylike. 

She’s like Sansa.

Gendry likes girls like Sansa.

The realization makes her even more furious than before. She wants to snap him in half, but doesn’t, because she doesn’t care what he does and it’s just some stupid crush.

“Hi,” Katya greets cheerily. “Call me Kat.”

You will not rip her face off, you will not, you will not, Arya. She wants to rip the smirk off the girl’s face anyway. She’s judging Arya, making the face Sansa makes when she gets something Arya wants but doesn’t end up getting after all. Arya has to bite back every harsh and biting retort that pops up because she doesn't want to make a scene.

Arya is dirty and sweaty and smells like Gendry, kind of, because this may or may not be a sweater he gave her when it was raining buckets outside and both Jon and Robb forgot to pick her up and he gave her a ride home on his motorcycle. Maybe. She has lots of hoodies that look like this one. Does he give his sweaters away all the time? Does Katya have one of his sweaters too?

She’s just like Sansa. Are they friends? Probably not, but the fact that Katya is like a rebellious Sansa Stark makes Arya see red.

They stand in a tense silence. 

Arya doesn’t know what to say to him. Gendry thinks that introducing Katya to Arya might not have been his greatest idea. It wasn’t like he wanted to. He told Katya he’d pick her up after practice, and he wasn’t expecting her to just be there. She surprised him, that was all, and it was fine but it kind of made him upset to see Arya so upset. (They’re just friends, him and Katya. Sort of.)

“Are you okay, Arya?” She gulps and nods, ignoring the stinging behind her eyelids.

“I’m fine. I’ve—uh—look, Robb’s here! Bye, Gendry,” she says quickly, brushing past them to the car parked across the street.

The ache is strange and unfamiliar and keeps her up that night and the night after that. And one morning a few days later, while she’s putting up algorithms on the board, it dawns on her that she really likes Gendry, more than just a friend, more than some silly schoolgirl crush, and that’s why she can’t take off his sweater or stop thinking about him or about how she’d like to go all Fight Club on his skanky girlfriend. This second revelation makes her more and more angry as time goes on, and by Saturday morning, she’s had enough. She’s made a point of avoiding him this week. If he’s in the ring, she’ll lift weights. If he’s lifting weights, she’s fighting someone in the ring. If Syrio asks her to fight him or do anything remotely involving him, she’ll make up an excuse about why she can’t. She can’t avoid him any longer though, because he’ll start getting suspicious, and he can’t know. He can’t.

How could he do that to her? The traitorous bastard has wormed his way into her heart and she let him and she can’t believe she was so stupid. She spends herself within the first ten minutes of fighting with him, fighting not to cry—she’s made it so far and she promises herself that when she gets home she’s going to sob herself to sleep if she can just get through this—but failing, wailing on him as hard as she can as unshed tears sting at her eyes. It’s not her best, but she’s so tired, so drained, that this is all she can do.

He grabs her arms and looks at her sternly, frowning with those damned blue eyes. She could kill him. How dare he make her like him and then just prance around with some vapid plastic girl named Katya? It wasn’t right. No. It wasn’t fair. Even though she acted like she didn’t, she had feelings too.

“Arya!” he exclaims. “You’re fighting like a girl. Seriously, put some unf in it. Hit me like you mean it.”

And that’s it, she’s off, and before she knows it she’s punching and crying and kicking and hitting him and she’s never felt so torn up in her entire life. She’s crying and she can’t stop, she just can’t stop, because it’s everything. It’s Gendry and Katya and her and Syrio telling her that she has to be better and stronger and wiser and more patient and her mom telling her that she needs to act more like a young lady and—just everything. But it’s mostly about Gendry and Katya being together and about Arya never ever being anything close to Katya and about Gendry liking girls like Katya and Sansa.

“Arya.” She wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt, sniffling. She tries to compose herself and throws a halfhearted punch at his chest, sighing. 

“I’m fine.”

“Arya—”

“I’m fine, Gendry!”

“You’re not fine.”

“Yes I am,” she cries, slamming her fists against him when he hugs her. What is he doing? She can’t stop crying and he’s holding her and he smells all minty and musky and clean, even though they’ve been at this for a while already. It’s like his sweater but better, this is so much better, a thousand times better. She doesn’t know why she enjoys it as much as she does. She shouldn’t. He’s seeing Katya. “I’m fine, Gendry.”

“You’re bluffing.” She stays silent, burying her face in his chest because she probably won’t get to do this ever again and if Katya catches wind of it, she’s pretty sure she’s getting her face ripped clean off. The girl seems that crazy. “Arya…”

“What?” she asks, voice muffled by his shirt.

“Look at me.” She gulps and glances up, eyes burning. His eyes are too blue and his nose is crooked (only a little) and her heart breaks just a bit more. “What’s wrong? Seriously. Is it your mom? Did Theon say something to you again?” He scowls. "I'll—"

“It’s nothing. I’m fine. Fight with me, please.” She tries to smile, shaking her head. It works on Bran and Jon all the time, but not Robb because it’s his job to be able to tell when people mean it or not. “I’ll fight dirty this time, just like you.” He’s not amused by her joke.

“I’m not playing around. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Why do you care?” she asks quietly, feeling small and wishing she hadn’t said it out loud. He frowns.

“What?” He looks down at her, narrowing his eyes a little as his grip on her arms loosens. “I’m your friend, Arya. I’m kind of supposed to care about you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t because I’m fine and it’s not a big deal so leave it alone.” She looks away, embarrassed and upset and angry, and that combination in any teenage girl is definitely dangerous. “What?”

“You’re still lying to me.”

“Why do you care?!” she exclaims, shoving him away. It’s useless, because he’s like a brick wall, but she’ll still try anyway. “It doesn’t—it’s fine, okay?”

“What happened to being completely honest? No bull, remember?”

“No bull,” she repeats softly, looking at him. 

“You’re my special girl, remember? You can tell—”

“Your special girl? How can you say that when you have a girlfriend?!” she seethes. She almost slaps him but he dodges it expertly, frowning at her. “Katya’s your special girl, Gendry.”

“Is that what this is all about? Katya?”

“No,” she lies stubbornly, taking a deep breath. “Fight with me.”

“You’re jealous of Kat.”

“Don’t be stupid.” 

She turns to the punching bag and starts practicing the jab that Syrio taught her the day before. Gendry braces himself against it, hands embracing the sides as he leans his head against the soft leather. Arya fights not to say her hand slipped and punch him in the nose. Maybe then he’ll know what it’s like when the person you like rips your heart out and stomps on it without abandon. Or dates someone else when they made you think they liked you too, same thing. He’s smiling, the fool, and his smile only makes her more upset.

“I—”

“You’re jealous of Kat,” he sings, grinning widely. She punches his shoulder.

“Cut it out! That’s not funny and I’m not jealous of some stupid girl, Gendry.” 

“Then tell me what’s wrong!” Her chest heaves as he moves closer. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, nervous. “What happened to telling each other everything? No bull? You’re lying to me right now, you know.” 

“I can’t tell you,” she says quietly, quickly slipping away from him. He corners her against the wall anyway.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. You don’t need to know, anyway.”

“I tell you everything—about my mom and my… dad and everything and—”

“Not about Katya. When exactly were you planning on telling me you had a girlfriend, Gendry?” She tries to keep the hurt out of her voice, because she won’t (can’t) care about what he does or who he does it with. He frowns for a second before smiling that smile that lets her know that he knows. She’s so screwed.

“Why would it matter if I told you about Katya or not?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“’Cause she was just some girl I was hooking up with?” He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think I had to tell you. She’s not my girlfriend. I mean, unless you’d like to hear all the dirty details? How she moaned when I—”

“I get it,” she mumbles.

“You haven’t answered my question yet.” She’s silent. “You like me, Arya.” 

It’s weird, hearing about it out loud. She doesn’t talk about it. Not when Robb asks her about why she wears Gendry’s sweater all the time, not when Sansa asks her why she turns red when she reads his texts or when he calls her, not when Jon makes his little jokes, not when Bran and Rickon ask her about the boy with the motorcycle, never. She calls him her friend because that’s what he is. Gendry’s her friend, a boy that she’s horrifically, terribly infatuated with. If Robb, Jon, or Sansa knew about her feelings towards Gendry she’d never hear the end of it. Bran and Rickon were too young to care. 

“Admit it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re lying.”

“How do you know?”

“I know you. And I know you’re doing this because you think you can piss your mom off if she thinks you’re with someone like me, and I’m telling you right now, that’s not flying—”

She hits him so hard then almost knocks his teeth out. His hand nurses his cheek. There’ll be a bruise there tomorrow. Arya isn’t sorry and wishes she’d actually knocked out a tooth. She doesn’t condone violence but he’s pushing it and she’s just about had it with him and his deadly charm.

“There’s the Arya I know.”

“Don’t you dare say things like that. My mom doesn’t know about you. She thinks I’ve been at the library this whole time.”

“What do you think your mom’s gonna say about you and me, huh?”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m not having Ned Stark coming down on me because his little baby girl thinks she can roll—”

“Who do you think you are?!” she exclaims, livid. “It doesn’t—why does it matter what they think?!”

“That’s exactly my point, Arya.”

“What?!” 

“I don’t know if you noticed, Arya, but I’m not, um, how I do I say this? I’m not Stark material. I’m no Lannister, no Hightower, no Tyrell, none of those people your family is so damn fond of. I don’t have a fancy sports car and I go to a public school in the middle of the city. Have you ever been to a public school? I have a real job and I make real money, even if it’s not a lot. I probably won’t go to college, and if I do, it won’t be UCLA or in or someplace fancy like that. I don’t get to go to awards shows or fancy banquets that could easily feed half of Los Angeles. My dad whores around and doesn’t give my mom a single penny. I’m not rich or spoiled—I’m none of that. I’m just Gendry Waters, much too scummy for the likes of you. And you think that you can totally get under your mother’s skin if you hang out with the likes of me, that she’ll have a heart attack if she sees you shove your tongue down my throat. And you know what? Maybe she will, but it's not going to be with me. I don't have time to be part of your little games. You can find someone else for that.”

“What are you even talking about?!”

“You don’t like me Arya. You probably like boys like Trystane Martell or—or, what’s his name? Joff Baratheon or something. I don’t know. I don’t keep up with them the way you do. You don’t like me. You like the idea of me. You like the idea of pissing everyone off and making a point. You like the attention. But you don’t like me, so get that idea out of your head right now.”

“Yeah?” She shoves him. “How do you know?” She shoves him again, getting right in his face. “What do you know, huh? You don’t know me! You don’t. I like you because—because I thought you saw past all of that—that you saw Arya and not little Miss Stark, but I was wrong, obviously. It’s not the first time. I thought you were different. I like you because you’re Gendry and you’re nothing like them, you don’t care about where my father can get you in life, you don’t care about my money—which isn’t even mine, by the way—you don’t care about where I go to school or what kind of car I’ll drive when I get my license or—you don’t care about any of that. I like you because you care about me, Arya Stark, just Arya Stark, not Arya Stark, Ned and Catelyn Stark’s little girl. I like you because you’re Gendry Waters, and Gendry Waters happens to be really awesome. But you don’t like me so it doesn’t even matter and I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.” She shoves past him, shaking her head. “I should leave. Bye.” She grabs her things off the floor, shoving them in the duffel bag near the door. She leaves his sweater on the hook. 

She’s calling Robb, leaning against the building as she shakes, breathing deeply. She will not cry. She will not. He’s just like everyone else and she shouldn’t have expected him to be any different.

“Arya.”

She doesn’t look at him, crossing her arms across her chest defiantly. It’s cold, so cold, but she doesn’t care. Gendry can have his sweater and motorcycle and everything else. She doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way. I wasn’t—that was rude. I hurt your feelings.”

Her response is an icy silence.

“I just don’t know why you like someone like me.” She shoots him a look, annoyed. “I’m not the kind of guy I thought you’d wanna be with, that’s all.”

Robb isn’t picking up. He’s with Jeyne, probably. She rolls her eyes. Lovesick fool. Arya’s never understood their relationship. Were they dating or not? Jon is at the university and Ygritte’s driving is scary sometimes, so she’s out of luck. She could always call Sansa, but the press is always following her and she can’t bring them here. This is one of the few places she has left.

“I—would you just look at me, please?” She glares at him with the fiercest, angriest look she can muster, narrowing her eyes at him sullenly. “I just can’t believe it because I like you too. Kind of. You’re crazy in a good way and you could totally kick my butt without breaking a sweat if you really wanted to, and that’s really hot. And you’re not like your sister. You don’t freak out if you sweat and you burp as loudly as I do and you can get down and dirty. And you—you’re Arya Stark, man. I don’t know what there’s not to like.”

She blushes.

“You don’t have to say that to mollify me, Gendry.”

“And you use words like mollify in general conversation.”

“Stop.”

“You’re hot, too. That doesn’t hurt anything.”

“Gendry—”

“And I like how you say my name and I’d like to hear how else you’d say it.”

“Gendry!” she exclaims, mortified.

“See?” He wriggles his eyebrows at her. “And you look nice in my clothes.”

“Ha-ha,” Arya mumbles, cheeks pink as she looks down.

“And you’re strong and brave and you don’t care about what other people about you. You’re real, Arya. That’s why I like you.”

And they’ve been together ever since. Gendry tugs on her ankle to get her attention, grinning.

“You know what we should do?”

“What should we do?”

“We should say hi to your parents.” She makes a face at him, confused. 

“Arya!” her mother exclaims. Gendry smiles and Arya tries not to sink through the sand, closing her eyes. Of course they’d find her at some point. Sansa must have told their mother. She’ll get her back for that later. Now, she has to focus on her mother and Gendry. Her dad isn’t much of a problem, because her dad’s cool and would probably get along pretty nicely with Gendry. Probably.

“Mom!” she says with a fake smile, standing up to wipe the sand off her pants. Gendry pulls himself to his feet too. He wants to meet her family because he insists she’s already met his mom—but his mom is like, drunk all the time, so it’s not like she can even have a real conversation with her at all. And her mother is crazy, something that Gendry doesn’t understand. He thinks the Starks are a picture perfect family, despite how many times Arya tries explaining how wrong that assumption really is. “What a surprise.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she exclaims, hugging her daughter tightly. Arya struggles to breathe, choking on her mother's perfume. It’s not like it smells bad, it’s just too much. She hugs her dad next, smiling at how big and strong he is. He looks tired, but he’s still here, and she appreciates the effort. Her mother starts trying to fix her hair, scowling at her. “Don’t you have a mirror, Arya? You look like—you look so messy.”

“Sorry. I’ve been here with Gendry all day.”

Granted, most of their morning was spent making out in the forest, but that’s supplementary information that Arya’s mother does not need to be privy to. She raises a perfect eyebrow.

“Gendry?” 

Arya's mother finally realizes that they aren’t alone. Gendry’s been toeing the sand nervously for the last five minutes, hands clasped behind his back. He holds out a nervous hand, smiling too much—she’s never seen him nervous, never. Not when he fought Joffrey that first time (the second time was in the bathroom in the middle of the night and he may or may not have shoved his face in the toilet three or five or six times and beaten the living daylights out of him, whatever) or when he had to pull Arya away from him before she clawed his face to bloody ribbons (she would have, because he hurt Sansa and that’s just not cool).

“I’m—It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Stark.”

Mrs. Stark.

Gendry does the same thing to her father, but Ned’s actually nice about it. Arya almost laughs. Her mother is not amused, shaking his hand with hidden disdain. The thin set to her lips, the questioning blue eyes, the condescending smile—she’s got her mother down to a science.

“And it’s nice to meet you as well, Gendry…?”

“Waters,” he supplies. She nods. This is not good. Not good at all. This is very, very bad. She’s going to find out, Gendry’s going to spill the beans and it’ll ruin months of secrecy and planning. “Gendry Waters.”

“Where are you from?”

“The city,” he says simply, smiling. Oh, silly boy. They’re screwed. They’re so screwed. Her mother knows. She knows. Did Sansa tell her mother? Or was it Robb? Or Jon? She’ll kill them all, she swears it.

“Oh… I see.” She nods her head a little and Gendry keeps smiling. “Where are your parents, Gendry?”

“My mother couldn’t make it,” he says effortlessly. It’s a lie, all lies—his mother couldn’t make it off the couch to take a car trip to see her son, but she could make it off the couch to take a walk down to the liquor store and drink enough liquor to put herself into a coma. Arya doesn’t like Gendry’s mother, but he’ll defend her with his dying breath if it comes to that.

“Oh,” her mother hummed, looking between Arya and Gendry. She hopes he hasn’t left any love bites and that she hasn’t either. They get carried away sometimes, and even though Arya doesn’t exactly care, her father might. (Ages of consent and all that ridiculousness.) “What, uh, what are you kids doing here… all by yourselves?”

Arya may have convinced Loras and Renly to split and leave them be for the morning. Her mom's tone holds a silent accusation, one that Gendry won’t pick up on but Arya will because she's sly, but she’s not that sly. 

“Where’s Trystane? Why aren’t you with him? That’s what Sansa said. I thought—weren’t you—” Catelyn begins, but Arya quickly cuts her off.

“Uh—he’s—he’s playing chess with Myrcella,” Arya says with a convincing smile. Leave it to Sansa to try not to mess things up and mess them up anyway. She has to lie, and fast. “I’m not really any good at it and she is. You know how Trystane is. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

Gendry looks confused.

“Oh, we’ll be eating dinner with the Martells,” she says, looking at her cautiously. “We’ll talk then.” She turns to Gendry. “Would you like to join us?”

“I couldn’t—I—I’m going to be doing something,” Gendry splutters. Arya wants to explain, needs to, but he won’t understand. Or maybe he will, all too well.

“What a shame. You should eat lunch with us! We won’t be able to stay very long after dinner. We have a charity benefit to attend this evening,” her father explains.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. Willas and his family invited me to eat with them instead. I’m sure you guys have things to talk about, and I’m supposed to go help Mr. Baratheon and his assistant in the office right about now anyway. Thanks though. It was nice meeting you!” he exclaims. He shakes their hands and waves goodbye to Arya. She watches him go, trying not to fidget and run after him.

Lunch with her family is both troubling and comforting. As much as she dislikes her mother and Sansa (sometimes), seeing Bran and Rickon pulls on her heartstrings. She misses her brothers, Rickon yelling across the table and Bran smirking at her from his wheelchair. Sansa looks better than she has in a while, hiding the wrist brace with a sweater and bracelets and a lie about how she sprained it playing tennis with Margaery. 

Arya can't think straight because she can’t find Gendry, who can hide out pretty well when he wants to. The hullabaloo with the visiting parents and siblings doesn’t make it any easier. At least she can find Trystane, and it doesn’t take much to convince him to play along at dinner. Myrcella is angry about it, but she promises to keep her trap shut. Arya’s doing this for Gendry. She doesn’t want them to take him away from her, not now, not for a long, long time.

Dinner with the Martells is interesting, if nothing else. Elia Martell was married to Aerys Targaryen before it happened, and so the Martells were always… on edge near the Lannisters, mostly because pretty much everyone believed that they had something to do with Elia, Aerys, Rhaegar, and the baby’s untimely death. (And Arya wouldn’t put it past them either, because the Lannisters are all crazy enough to do something like that, except for maybe Myrcella.) Maybe one of the Martells ends up flinging a butter knife across the room at Tywin. Granted, it misses him, but everyone’s still on edge nonetheless. At least her mother buys the whole ‘dating-Trystane’ thing, even if Myrcella looks like she’s two seconds away from bursting into tears, staring holes into Arya and Trystane.

And then of course, there’s Gendry, watching Arya and Trystane with a lofty eye as he sits between Garlan and Willas. She feels horribly guilty every time he brushes her hand or does something even remotely romantic. Even if it’s just a ruse, Gendry doesn’t know that—or does he?—and it still bothers her, just a bit.

She kisses Trystane chastely to sell it, waving at her parents as they get in their fancy car. Catelyn smiles for once. Arya owes Trystane a favor, but it’s okay because Trystane’s a cool cat, and he’s her friend anyway. 

Arya seeks out Brienne, who’s sitting in the library, and tells her to shove some pillows under some blankets in her bed so that when Renly comes around, he’s not suspicious. He’s flexible, but not that flexible. They stay and talk until it’s about fifteen minutes to curfew, and then she makes her way to Gendry’s cabin. His roommate Willas likes Sansa, like, a lot, and he seems to hate Joffrey as much as she does, so he’s cool. His brother Loras is Sansa’s best friend. Margaery makes fun of her, so Arya’s not her biggest fan (maybe it’s because she might have said that Margaery sounds like a drowning cat when she sings, whatever). Garlan is pretty laidback, and he did a film with Sansa too, so he’s not so bad. Willas isn’t hard to get rid of—all she needs to do is give him a note from Sansa and he’s gone for most of the evening.

Wonderful.

Gendry’s already asleep, unsurprisingly. Arya locks the door and slips out of her shoes, sneaking into his bed. She just wants to curl up with Gendry and hold him tight and pretend today just didn’t happen. He’s warm, like he always is, despite the cool breeze coming in through the window. She slips under the blankets and crawls on top of him, squinting. He shifts and throws an arm around Arya, moving her to his side. She frowns a little, flicking his nose.

“Hey, you.” She kisses him with a small smile, but he’s not having any of it. “Gendry?” He looks at her blankly, almost upset. “What?”

“I don’t know if you should really be here right now, Arya,” he says softly.

“What?”

“I mean, your boyfriend might kick my butt if he finds out you were here, you know. Trystane Martell? Tall kid? Brown hair? His sister loves pudding and stuff. He’s always playing a game with Joffrey’s sister? She's kind of, like, really into him? That kid. You know who I’m talking about.”

She groans, trying not to roll her eyes.

“I can explain,” she pleads, trying to hold his hand. He’s a sucker for things like that, but it’s just not flying tonight.

“Yeah? You didn’t tell them about me. You lied to me, Arya.”

She didn’t lie, per se. She told the truth, kind of. They knew she was seeing someone, just not that it was Gendry. It wasn’t like she could tell them without risking them freaking out. After her mom found her birth control stash—granted, Arya was getting slightly sloppy, so it was inevitable—she freaked. And okay, maybe Sansa took the blame and said that she was using them for her period or something like that. Of course, she didn’t tell Sansa about Gendry either, but still.

Her family was getting suspicious, and Arya couldn’t risk Catelyn finding out about Gendry. She wouldn’t lose him, not so easily.

So maybe she told Gendry her mom knew she had a boyfriend and just didn’t tell him that she didn’t know that said boyfriend was him. Whatever. It wasn't really a lie, but he’s not buying it.

“Gendry, please—”

“I just—what do you want me to say? I don’t know. I mean, if you couldn’t come clean to your mom and dad about me by now, then what am I supposed to think about that? I mean—seriously? We’ve been together for how long? A year? When exactly were you planning on telling them about me? I told my mom about you—”

“It’s different.”

“Different,” he repeats. “Different how?”

“It just is,” she answers quietly, gnawing on her lip.

“Right.” He’s quiet for a second, sitting up. Arya follows suit. “If I were like Trystane, would it be different? Or if I were Willas? Probably wouldn’t matter much if I were Theon or Viserys or any of the other guys here, I guess. Would it be different then, Arya?”

“Gendry, I—you know I—” She stops herself. “I… I just—you don’t understand,” she tries to say. “It’s so much more than that.”

“Then explain it to me. What am I missing? I’m not rich enough for you, that it? I thought—you know what, it obviously doesn’t matter what I think since you usually do whatever you want to do anyway.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? You could have told me you didn’t tell her. That would have been fine. You told me you told them about us and then turn around and tell them you’re with Trystane, right in front of me. You lied.”

“It’s not that easy. You don’t get it, Gendry. People are always expecting something from me, always expecting me to be like Sansa and be this perfect starlet who does perfect starlet things.”

“And perfect starlets don’t date the likes of me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she says, biting her lip. “I’m—I’m doing this for us, Gendry.”

“For us? Or for you?”

Her face falls as she looks at him, nonplussed.

“I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”

“I’m just wondering if you don’t want to tell them because you’re afraid of what they’ll do to us or if you’re afraid of what people will say about you,” he says quietly, looking at her evenly.

“I’m not afraid,” she says softly.

“Then why couldn’t you tell them? It’s been a whole year, Arya. A whole year, and you’re telling me you couldn’t find the time to just tell them the truth? It’ll be worse when they find out you lied to them.”

“It’s—it’s complicated—”

“Then let me un-complicate it for you: I’m not good enough for you, obviously, and you’re too afraid that everyone’s going to look down on you because of me, so let’s just end this, right here and now if it’s that complicated.” 

He gets out of bed, pulling on some shoes and a sweater. Arya follows him, slipping into her own shoes. He opens the door and walks out, shoving his hands in his pockets. She shuts the door behind her and follows him outside, trying to catch up to him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied, but I had to.” She touches his shoulder and he turns around, looking down at her. “I did it for us.”

“And I have to do this. It’s for your own good.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m breaking up with you, Arya Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT JUST GOT REAL.  
> hi everyone! again. thanks to everyone who commented or left a kudo or bookmarked, and a special thanks for the TWELVE SUBSCRIBERS that popped up out of nowhere. you guys are awesome. :3  
> sorry for the lack of updates, you guys. i hope this incredibly long update - i get out of control sometimes - made up for it. i answered everyone's comments - i didn't know you could do that, which is why it took me so long ;~; but now that i know how to do it, i'll respond as soon as i can.


	7. Robb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been edited and now features 100% more sassy angst. Please read the note at the end.

Robb Stark has been dreading this day for the last couple of years, and now that it’s finally here, he doesn’t know how to react. It could be worse, and he knows this, but the fact that he’s here unnerves him all the same.

“Robb?” Jeyne asks, frowning a little. “Are you okay?” 

She keeps talking and he should say something—do something—but he can’t. What is he supposed to say? He looks down at the cup of coffee in front of him, focusing on the swirling creamer and sugar, willing himself not to look up. He can’t, because he knows that if he does, he’ll say he told her so, and he’s pretty sure that’s the last thing Jeyne needs to hear right now.

How did this happen?

Robb blames himself.

Jeyne Westerling and Robb Stark met on the first day of their freshman year in high school. It was on a Friday, meaning that Robb was starting the year off with a bang, literally. They were playing against Immaculate Grace that night. Robb was on the football team—to carry on the Stark tradition at Sacred Heart, of course—and Jeyne was on the color guard. He still remembers the first time he saw her wide smile, pink and purple wires intertwining in her mouth as she grinned and told him her name and talked about how excited she was about making the team. Spots on the team were pretty limited and the tryouts were horrifically cut throat, according to her. She was so excited, so enthusiastic. He loved it. 

They’d been best friends ever since. 

For some reason, the other students didn’t take to Jeyne the way Robb did. She was picked on and shoved, called pretty much every name his classmates could think of. The privileged children of Los Angeles were nothing else if not cruel, especially to those who deserved it the least. Jeyne, however, faced them all with her brightest smile and unwavering perseverance, which seemed to only infuriate her tormentors. Jeyne had always been lanky, her hair was stringy, she had the occasional pimple on her cheek, she was such a good student, got along pretty nicely with their teachers, and the fact that she had the most ridiculous amount of school spirit Robb had ever seen didn’t help matters either.

Robb was her fiercest defender, because it wasn’t like she was doing anything to anyone anyway. All she wanted was to be friends with everyone. That wasn’t a reason to pick on her.

Little things happen over the course of their high school career that sometimes made him think that they should be more than friends, but he shakes his head and buries the feelings beneath plays the coach wants him to memorize and postulates he has to know for his geometry test.

It doesn’t do any good.

Freshman year goes by in a blur of Jeyne and football. The team wins the state championship and Jeyne kisses him under a flurry of confetti and laughter and cheers on the field, blushing afterwards. (“Oops.”) Sophomore year, she gets an anonymous valentine from none other than Robb himself, though he’ll deny it until he’s blue in the face. (“I swear it wasn’t me!”) Junior year, Jeyne starts dating the drum major of the marching band. Said drum major decides it’ll be in his best interest to mess around with the captain of the color guard behind Jeyne’s back. Robb may or may not have slammed his face into a locker room wall three times and beaten him bloody after a football game that Jeyne missed because she had the flu. (But that’s really all up to speculation.) The drum major breaks up with her after Robb’s “persuasive action”. Robb brings her some soup and she cries into his shoulder for most of the night, then falls asleep while they watch Mean Girls. It’s Jeyne’s favorite movie and he hates it (“Boo, you whore!”), but she’s his best friend so he’ll make tiny sacrifices for her happiness.

He likes Jeyne, and he knows this, but he also knows they can’t ever be together. Mostly because Señor Asshole kind of scared Jeyne off relationships for a long time and because Robb isn’t sure he’ll be a much better replacement. He doesn’t want to ruin things, because everything between Jeyne and him was going pretty smoothly. He thinks that if they were together it might be even better, but he doesn’t want to risk it. What if she ends up hating him forever when they break up? He couldn’t live with himself if that happened.

So he’ll sit and nurse this crush or infatuation or whatever in silence, and be what she needed. 

Which is, right now, anyway, a friend.

Senior year is what messes everything up.

She goes to Texas to visit her grandparents the summer before senior year starts. Robb drives her to the airport. She’s wearing her dorky school sweater—Go Crusaders!—and a pair of loose shorts and sandals, a floppy hat on her head as she hugs him goodbye. He waves until he can’t see her anymore, watches her plane leave in the window, then drives home. They call and text each other religiously, much like they always do when they’re away from each other. 

Everything’s fine and well. 

Robb starts seeing Roslin Frey, a girl he met at one of his mother’s benefit dinners. Her father is a major contributor to her foundation and she needs his support this year if she wants to keep things running smoothly, so it’s up to Robb to persuade him to keep the money coming by taking out old man Frey’s little Rosie. It’s supposed to be a summer fling, nothing more, but he can’t bring himself to call it quits before Jeyne comes home. And even if he could, he’s not sure Roslin (or his mother) would let him break up with her anyway.

Jeyne comes home the day before senior year, and of course, she spends the day with her family. She calls Robb later and tells him to pick her up for school, and that they need to catch up so they have to pay a trip to IHOP afterwards. And Robb agrees because he's missed her. He wants to see Jeyne because texts are great and phone calls are even better, but there’s nothing like having her right next to him, tangible and there and giggling at one of his stupid jokes. So, of course, Robb is at the Westerling gates at seven sharp the next morning. He’s drumming his hand to the steering wheel and singing along to Man Overboard—Jeyne made him a mix CD before she left and he’s been listening to it ever since—when she gets in, shutting the door behind her.

“I kept my distance; I was the good boy—”

“Robb!” she exclaims loudly, wrapping her arms around his neck as she laughs. 

He looks over and feels his heart stop in his chest. 

Jeyne Westerling has always been pretty, and Robb knows this, but it seems as though she’s grown even prettier during her absence. Maybe Sansa’s right about that ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ ridiculousness.

Jeyne’s hair is out of its usual braid and down her shoulders, long and chestnut brown. Her glasses are gone and replaced by her fluttering eyelashes and contacts. Her eyes have always been brown and he knows this—he practically knows her as well as she knows him (and she knows him better than his own mother)—but they’re different, somehow, deeper and softer. She’s gotten her braces taken off—she runs her tongue over her teeth proudly and Robb almost dies right then and there—and her smile is even brighter than it used to be. She’s not gangly and awkward anymore—she’s actually filling out her sweater for the first time and he hates himself for noticing but can’t help to anyway—and she’s comfortable in her own skin for once.

“And my heart caves in when I look at you.”

Robb Stark has finally fallen in love, and drives to school in a sort of Jeyne-induced haze. He’s looking forward to their date of sorts at IHOP later that afternoon. He parks the car and walks with Jeyne to the school, still grinning like the fool he is… until Roslin Frey rears her ugly head and ruins it.

“Robb!”

He’s never seen Jeyne look more upset than then, when Roslin tried sucking his face off in her too short skirt and tight blouse.

Senior year becomes a nightmare he can’t wake up from. Jeyne and Robb are close, but not as close as they used to be. One encounter with Roslin without Robb there as a buffer—Roslin’s a cheerleader and the cheer team and color guard are putting on a big halftime show for this year’s first game—has Jeyne sobbing for hours and ignoring all his phone calls. Apparently, Roslin takes it upon herself to tell Jeyne—who hasn’t realized that she’s become one of the most beautiful people Robb has ever seen in his entire life and still sees herself as the geeky girl she’s always been—that Robb only talks to her because no one else does and that she’s disgusting and no one will ever want her and that she just needs to stop acting like such a desperate little slut and a bunch of other things Robb would rather not think about, and on top of that had the cheer squad tear up her clothes, meaning that she had to walk home—because Robb was very conveniently at football practice and wouldn’t be getting out until quarter to nine—in nothing but a skimpy color guard leotard (which Roslin’s friends had taken the liberty of writing “Stupid whore” on in bright pink letters), sparkly tights and dance shoes in the pouring rain. 

Robb’s never screamed at anyone as loudly as he did at Roslin when found out a week or so later.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I don’t know why you’re so mad, Robb,” Roslin says as she files down her nails, looking over at him. She laughs, turning over the file. “It’s was just a joke.”

“Just a joke? What if something had happened to her?!” 

Roslin rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she blows the dust away.

“Big deal,” she mumbles softly, starting to paint her nails.

The argument lasts for almost three days.

To keep him from breaking up with her, she spits a forced apology at Jeyne, who only accepts it because Robb wants both of the girls in his life to at least tolerate each other if they can’t get along. Roslin doesn’t like his friendship with Jeyne, and does things to keep them apart. Robb sees through most of them and ignores her attempts, but Roslin setting Jeyne up with Lancel Lannister catches him completely by surprise. 

Lancel is on the fencing team. Personally, he doesn’t see the appeal, but Jeyne does, and Robb has to sit and smile and laugh when she gushes about things that Lancel does, pat her back when they fight, and take her condom shopping and to the doctor’s so she can get some birth control—“Just in case!”

He’s miserable. 

Robb ends up breaking up with Roslin three days before prom, just to make her mad. It works. Roslin Frey is furious, but there’s not much she can do. She ends up winning Prom Queen anyway without him. He drops out of the running because he doesn’t feel the need to be in it if he’s not with Roslin—it was all for her sake. Quentyn Martell wins Prom King. Good for Quentyn. Lancel and Jeyne go together, and she’s happy, but there’s something off about her happiness. Robb thinks it’s just his jealousy getting the best of him, so he ignores it. He goes to prom with Jon and Pyp and some other friends, and spends the night trying to ignore Jeyne in her pretty pink dress and bright smile.

He doesn’t think anything will come of this fling with Lancel, that they’ll break up eventually and then he’ll finally have his chance with Jeyne, but no. Jeyne and Lancel have been together (on and off but mostly on) for the last four years.

“Robb?” 

He meets her gaze across the table with a smile that’s more simper than anything else, trying to figure out where all his words have run off to. He wants to throttle Roslin. This is all her fault. And Lancel. It’s his fault too. And Cersei. The three of them ruined everything. He knew this day would come, the day where Lancel finally went and shattered Jeyne’s fragile heart in a thousand pieces, but he never knew what he would actually do.

He knows because Lancel likes to make jokes at Jeyne’s expense, because Lancel can’t keep from leering at other women while Jeyne is literally right next to him, because like all Lannisters, he is incapable of appreciating Jeyne for who she truly is. But Jeyne loved Lancel, not Robb, so who was Robb to say that Lancel didn’t love Jeyne?

Well, catching him in the act with Cersei—he doesn’t want to know, hopes they’re not related and that they share their last name and nothing else—kind of cements the fact. It’s in the break room at the shelter—Jaime thinks that Cersei just needs to do some community service to clean up her image (Robb thinks this is just another way for Cersei to get under his skin). Lancel only works at the shelter because he’s friends with Jaime and thinks he’s the heavens’ gift to mankind or something. He doesn’t like Lancel. Not because he’s dating Jeyne—even though that kind of is part of it—but because he’s always making passes at the women that stay the night. Robb honestly can’t keep track of the number of complaints he gets on a weekly basis about Lancel, but has to keep him around because Jaime and Jeyne would be pretty pissed if he didn’t. 

Robb walked into the break room because he had to make flyers and found them going at it on the counter next to the microwave.

It was pretty awkward.

Of course, Robb tells Jeyne. Not because he wants to break them up (except he kind of does), but because Jeyne deserves to know and he knows that if the roles were reversed, Jeyne would do the same for him. He has to tell her. She needs to know, and Robb breaks the news as gently as he can. It’s better, he thinks, that she hears it from him than see it in some sleazy magazine. 

It does not go as smoothly as Robb had hoped. Jeyne refuses to believe Robb, screaming and crying about how he couldn’t let her be happy with someone else when he wasn’t, leaving Robb in his apartment with an angry red slap mark on his cheek. She stays angry and doesn’t talk to him for weeks. The silent treatment last until Jeyne comes home after a long day of work at the daycare and she catches them in the act.

A night of drinking (Jeyne and Robb), crying (Jeyne), more drinking (mostly Jeyne), dancing at the club (Jeyne), stumbling to the bathroom and spending rest of the night throwing up (Jeyne) in Robb’s bathroom follows the betrayal, along with drunken, hiccupped apologies. All is forgiven, and he just smiles and tells Jeyne to breathe, rubbing her back as she dry heaves.

She’s gone in the morning, the guest room cleaner than the way she found it, no explanations, no goodbyes—nothing. 

He feels empty and he doesn’t know why.

Robb hears from her a week later, which is why he finds himself sitting with her in a crowded Starbucks, ignoring the whispers and the people who think they’re being sneaky when they sneak shots of him with her over their overpriced coffees and teas. Their friendship is not like her last relationship, shrouded in mystery and vague affirmations or denials. They’ve done films together and hosted award shows, and they still hung out a fair bit despite her relationship with the insufferable Lancel Lannister, and most people thought that it was because they were really lovers. Robb has only ever seen her artsy headshots and the spread she did for Cosmo, covered by sheets and only sheets.

He couldn’t sleep for a solid week.

But anyway, Jeyne needs somewhere to stay, because “their” apartment is actually Lancel’s apartment. Robb jumps at the chance to be Jeyne’s knight in shining armor and tells her to forget about staying at a hotel, that she should just stay with him.

Everyone else assumes that when Jeyne moves in with Robb that they’re finally together. Jeyne’s relationship with Lancel wasn’t exactly public because Jeyne really didn’t enjoy public displays of affection (with Lancel, anyway) and Lancel kept his mouth shut about Jeyne. For the first few weeks, they can’t go out without the press mobbing the doors. Jeyne has to sneak out the back entrance to the apartment building to get to work in the morning, and Robb has to shove his way through reporters just to get to his car to get some groceries. It dies down after a month or so, but there’s always the rogue group of paparazzi that get them coming out of a restaurant or the movies or anywhere else where they go to have fun.

Robb gets an angry call from his mother at four in the morning (she justifies it by telling him it’s only seven in the evening in the Netherlands), screaming about how it was that her son was seeing Jeyne Westerling and moved her into his house and she didn’t know about it and had to read it in “some sordid tabloid at the gas station”. Robb explains Jeyne’s predicament to his mother and hopes that the rest of his family and everyone else will let it go, but people still call them the new ‘it-couple’. 

It’s upsetting, sometimes, because he’s not Jeyne’s boyfriend and she’s not his girlfriend, and that won’t change just because some people think that they’re together.

That was a couple of months ago. It was only supposed to be until she got back on her feet, but she’s made roots in Robb’s apartment, not that he really minds, and it seems as though she’s not leaving any time soon. It’s okay. He likes having her around, for obvious reasons.

Working at Highgarden is both a respite and a mild form of punishment. It gives him something to think about besides Jeyne, but everywhere he goes he sees Cersei, which makes him think of Lancel and then Jeyne, so he tries to avoid Cersei if he can help it. He feels good, helping these kids, seeing his sisters—except for that mess with Joffrey (but Gendry and Garlan saw to that thanks to Renly, Robb, and Jon looking the other way)—but he can’t help but to find himself sighing with relief when 5 PM rolls around. He can finally see Jeyne. He only spends the night at Highgarden once or twice a week, spending the rest of his nights a wall away from Jeyne. On Sundays, he doesn’t go to Highgarden. He goes to the shelter in the morning, eats lunch with Jeyne, then eats dinner with his mother, father, Jon, Bran, and Rickon. He’d invite Jeyne too, but Jeyne is eating dinner with her own family on Sunday afternoons. As tortuous as this routine is, it’s kind of comforting too, just having her be there.

Not sharing her with Lancel is kind of nice.

Sharing an apartment with Jeyne isn’t so bad either. She likes to cook and keeps things moderately neat, splits the rent, and doesn’t bring any guys over. She has a kitten, a small white ball of fur that has big blue eyes that she names Marina. He gets home around five thirty. Marina is rubbing up against his leg with a happy purr, then scampers away before he can scratch her behind the ears. The apartment is eerily quiet.

“Jeyne?” he calls out, confused. She pops out of her room in a t-shirt that looks suspiciously like one of his (Robb’s pretty sure she’s never had a summer job at the mayor’s office before—all the interns at the office got a shirt from the mayor’s wife) and a pair of shorts—Jeyne has a very strict shorts policy for the summer—tucking her hair behind her ear. 

“Hey,” she grins, holding some papers in her hands. “I bought pizza for dinner. I was waiting for you, so it’s probably cold.” She wriggles her eyebrows at him, sitting down on the couch as she turns on the TV. She’s supposed to be reading compositions—but granted, it’s not like second graders really have much to say—but eats some pizza instead, patting the seat next to her. “Aren’t you hungry?”

He watches her curiously, wondering when she got ahold of his shirt, sitting down on the couch. Marina slinks into the living room again and perches herself on the recliner, resting her head on her paws. He grabs a slice and watches TV with a small frown. It’s not like he doesn’t like her in it—he likes it too much, actually—but it’s the fact that she’s wearing it and doesn’t even care. She must have mixed it in with her clothes when she did the laundry. They take turns every week, and she did it this week. 

She laughs, almost snorting. He looks at her with a small smile.

“Listen to what Tommen wrote,” she giggles, sniffling. “When I grow up, I want to be a king. King Tommen Lannister, like a lion. I want everyone to be happy, so I am going to get rid of beets because beets make people sad. I want to give everyone a kitten. Everyone loves kittens and kittens make people happy. Except for Joffy. Joffy doesn’t like kitties, but he’s stupid so he doesn’t count. The end.” He drew kittens all over his paper. “He’s priceless.”

They read the rest of her class’ papers, laughing themselves silly. It’s easy with Jeyne. Everything’s easy and simple, natural. They watch some movies and polish off a bottle of wine. Jeyne falls asleep in the middle of Hancock. Robb doesn’t notice that she’s basically settled herself right up against him until the credits play and he shuts off the TV. She’s managed to get her arms around him and he wonders what he was doing that he hadn’t noticed.

“Jeyne?”

Her reply is a soft sigh and a gentle squeeze. 

“Jeyne.” She sighs again and just holds him closer, rubbing her face in his chest. He feels his heart threatening to burst, hands clammy and shaky. “Jeyne?” His voice cracks when her hand slips from underneath her cheek and lands right on Little Robb. Not good. This is not good at all. “Jeyne,” he says again, trying to be forceful. Jeyne isn’t budging. It’s almost one in the morning and if he doesn’t go to bed, he’s going to wake up late and get an earful from Stannis and Melisandre. But being here with Jeyne is almost worth it. Almost, until he reminds himself that when she wakes up late (which she probably will), she’ll yell at him because she’ll be late for work too. She’s not a morning person the way it is, and a crabby Jeyne in the morning is something to be feared. “You have to get up.”

“No,” she mumbles quietly.

“Jeyne… ” When she shows no signs of getting up anytime soon, he sighs and hooks his arms under her knees and shoulders, picking her up. She scowls, squinting at him. 

“Don’t be such a party pooper,” she slurs, patting his cheek. Her hand slides down and she giggles. “Someone needs to shave,” she sings, patting his cheeks. “Can I tell you a secret? Sh.” She puts her finger on his lips sloppily as he skirts the table, narrowly avoiding the empty wine bottle. “Robb can’t know.” 

He laughs. Jeyne is hilarious when she’s drunk and he finds that she’s most divulging and bluntly honest when she’s completely plastered. So he tries to keep her from getting drunk because there are some things he’d rather not know. It’s kind of hard because she’s a lightweight and doesn’t know her limits, and refuses to have anyone tell her what to do. (Jeyne Westerling does what she wants when she wants and nobody will tell her otherwise.) Though there are those times when she does talk about him, and he’s only human after all, curious and mildly in love.

“I like him best when he doesn’t shave,” she confesses. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

“My lips are sealed,” he jokes, feeling around blindly for the light switch. She laughs, squinting at him. 

“You have pretty lips. Robb does too,” she sighs, humming softly. He’s happy he can’t find the switch and that it’s dark so she can’t see the flush engulfing his face. Her door is open, thankfully, so it doesn’t take much to get her in bed. He takes off her shoes and the clip out of her hair, pulling the sheets up because she’s always cold, despite the fact that they live in California and it’s practically summer all year. When he tugs the sheets around her shoulders, she pats his face. He looks over and the next thing he knows she’s kissing him, propping herself up on her elbows. He doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to pull away, but he knows that if he doesn’t stop, he won’t, and he doesn’t want to be with her like this, drunk and sloppy and half forgetful. 

“We shouldn’t, Jeyne,” he says quietly, looking down at her. Jeyne looks disappointed. She turns onto her side and pulls the blankets over her head. “Goodnight.”

Robb slips into his own room and tries to sleep, but instead finds himself replaying the kiss over and over and over again. He dozes off and wakes up, dozes and wakes up, and by the time seven in the morning rolls by, he’s had enough. He slams a hand on the snooze button and scowls down at Little Robb, rolling his eyes. One very cold shower later, he gets dressed and fixes his hair. He decides not to shave, mostly because of Jeyne’s drunken confession. When he sits down at the table, Jeyne is eating some pancakes with a tired expression, moving her fork along her plate with a deep sigh. She glances up at him and smiles, then looks back down at her plate.

“Good morning,” she mumbles, pointing her fork at the kitchen. “I made you some too.” He grabs himself some and sits in front of her. She eats her food slowly, the telltale sign of a hangover playing out on her face. She sips some orange juice and makes a face, setting it down. “I don’t feel like going to work today.” After a beat, she says, “I don’t—did we go out or something last night? I can’t remember.” She squints as if that’ll help her remember. Robb blanches. She doesn’t remember. If she doesn’t remember, that means that she doesn’t remember the kiss. He’s never been able to lie to Jeyne, and he kind of wants her to know, even if it means that it might change things.

“Nothing?”

“I remember watching the film and reading the kids’ papers… and then it’s blank.” She laughs. “Did we go out or something?”

“No,” he says with a light blush on his cheeks, looking down at his plate. He starts trying to cut up his pancake, but his hand keeps shaking.

“Robb?” Jeyne frowns at him, setting down her fork. “Did I—what happened?”

“You just—we—um—we kissed,” he mumbles, gulping lightly. Jeyne laughs then, so pretty and infectious that he can’t help but to laugh too, even though his chest is too tight for comfort. Their laughter fades into silence because Jeyne’s eating again and he doesn’t know what to say. They grab the syrup bottle at the same time. Jeyne raises an eyebrow at him, starting to smile. 

“You’re gonna be late for work, Robb.”

“Hm? Oh. I guess so, yeah,” he says softly, letting go and rubbing his suddenly clammy hands against his pants.

Everything’s different now. He doesn’t know why or how, but something has changed. She hugs him and kisses his cheek chastely, like she does every morning. Something’s different about it though, but he can’t figure out what it is.

“You didn’t shave,” she says with a curious smile, rubbing her thumb against his cheek. “You always shave.”

“I’m trying something new.”

“Have fun at work,” she smiles, turning around and walking back to the table. Are her hips swinging on purpose or have they always done that? He can’t breathe. He can’t.

“Oh, shut up,” he says to Little Robb in the car, practically speeding to Highgarden. He gets there just as they’re sitting for their staff meeting. Stannis drones on and on about “proper filing and labeling procedures”. Robert’s making eyes at Cersei and she gags when Stannis isn’t looking. Ygritte is ignoring Jon’s sullen face—Robb doesn’t even know what they’re fighting about anymore. Jaime is drumming his fingers with boredom, Shae is chewing some gum loudly, and Renly is shrinking under Melisandre’s intense glare. 

The group breaks up a little after eight. He takes the kids swimming. Gendry sits on the dock and Arianne and Myrcella split the time tanning, building sand castles, and swimming with Willas. Until, of course, Willas gets a nosebleed and Robb has to walk him to the infirmary because he can’t see with his head up.

He doesn’t know what to make of what happened last night. The only people who would know what to do are Ygritte and Renly. The redhead is dancing around, pumping her arms and legs as she sings.

“You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen, dancing queen—” She stops when she hears Robb and Willas snickering, standing up straight. (Robb smiles because Jeyne loves ABBA and she practically dies when she hears “Dancing Queen”. She could be friends with Ygritte. The thought amuses him.) She shuts the radio off and grins. “Oh! The man of the hour! What happened to my little prince, eh?” She fusses and coos after him, leading him off into a little room. Robb sits down behind the desk, helping himself to some cashews. A few minutes later, he’s as good as new and decides to pay Renly a visit in the kitchens. Robb and Ygritte share a knowing look. He’s going to go drool after Sansa.

Oh well.

“Why the long face, Robb?” Ygritte asks, sitting on her desk. He tells her everything, from beginning to end, and at the end of it all he’s finished the tin, Ygritte’s broken out the good chocolate, and Robb’s finishing the ice cream that Shae thought Ygritte didn’t know about. 

“Be still my heart,” she smiles, almost tearing up. “Robb Stark has finally fallen in love.”

“She’s my best friend, Ygritte, and I just—” He stops short, sighing. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Ygritte dabs at her eyes and sighs softly.

“Why do you have to do anything? What if she doesn’t love you back? What if you end up ruining everything and completely freak her out?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

“Don’t be afraid, Robb. Love isn’t supposed to scare you.” Ygritte gets up, slinking off to the stereo. “My lonely days are through!” She holds a hand to her chest. “Just keep calm and listen to ABBA, Robb. Love conquers all. You’ll figure it out.”

Love conquers all.

What wonderful advice, he thinks as he leaves the infirmary, trudging towards the mess hall. He grabs a lunch from Robert and sits down with Renly and Jon, picking sullenly at the sandwich on his plate.

“Robb?” Jon asks, frowning at him. One sullen glare from Robb stops whatever questions may surge up. Renly stays silent and Loras looks at him knowingly—how the kid finds out the kind of things he knows Robb will never know and sometimes thinks he doesn’t want to know—eating a peach with a lazy grin. 

Robb spends the day calling different centers in the city for their trip that Saturday, stocking the infirmary with Shae, and reorganizing the filing cabinet. It seems as though five can’t come fast enough. 

“Bro.”

Renly stands in front of Robb’s desk with his arms across his chest, frowning at him. Robb looks at him before going back to his list, picking up the phone. Renly hangs it up and shakes his head at him.

“Hi, Renly,” Robb says, taking the phone from him. “Can I help you?”

“Do you know what today is?” 

“Um… is the Bachelorette starting up again?”

“What? No. That’s next Friday. You need to start reading the memos I leave you, seriously.” Renly sighs. “You’re not seriously telling me you can’t remember what today is.”

“Not a clue,” Robb mumbles, going back to his paperwork.

“We need to talk, bro. Something’s up with you.”

“I’m fine,” he says dismissively, hoping Renly will get a clue and leave him alone. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not again. Not anymore. He wants to bury these feelings away like he’d been doing for the last couple of years, but he can’t. Last night’s kiss has opened a can of worms that he’s afraid he can’t close.

“You’re not fine, obviously.” He pulls the phone out from Renly’s hand, dialing a film studio. The kids should like that. Hopefully. Probably not. “What is it?”

“I’m fine.”

He narrows his eyes at Robb, scowling. 

“You didn’t shave. You always shave. Either you’re finally getting some or you’re having some serious issues. And since I know you would have told me by now if you had gotten with Jeyne—”

“Why does it have to be Jeyne? It can’t be someone else?” Robb asks, annoyed. He shoots Renly a look. Renly raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been trying to put the moves on Jeyne for about as long as I’ve known you,” he says flatly. “You didn’t have sex with Jeyne. I would know. You wouldn't even be here today. What—what’s all this?” he asks, moving his fingers in Robb’s face.

He’s silent for a few minutes before he says something, knowing that when he says it, Renly’s going to freak out.

“She thinks I look better if I don’t shave.”

“For heaven's sake,” Renly sighs, shaking his head at Robb. “Robb, I love you. You know I love you. I do. I have to. You’re my bro. It's like part of the bro code. Bros don’t let their bros give up. I know I’m always saying you should, but I’ve been thinking that maybe if you just—”

“Jeyne kissed me last night,” Robb blurts. Renly looks at him wide-eyed, jaw dropping. 

“What?”

Robb looks at Renly and sighs. 

“I kissed Jeyne. We were drinking and she—I was taking her to bed because she couldn’t just sleep on the couch and she was like, she was on me, kind of? And I was just putting her in bed and we kind of made out, sort of.” Robb props his head up with a sigh.

“Robb… ” Renly trails off. 

“Jeyne didn’t remember and when I told her this morning she just laughed.” He rubs his face. “I—I don’t… I don’t know, bro. I know I can’t—”

“No, you know you say you can’t.”

“What?”

“You’re always saying you can’t be with Jeyne because you’ll ruin this wonderful friendship the two of you have. But what if you won’t ruin it? What if she wants to be with you too? What if, Robb?”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

“Okay, then she doesn’t. Big deal. What’s the worst thing that can happen? What if she’s not the one? What if you’re spending all your time hung up on this girl and she’s not even the one you’re meant to be with? I know it seems like I’m being heartless, but maybe you just need to grow a pair and try. You won’t know if you don’t try. What if she’s waiting for you to make a move, Robb?”

“I’ll mess it up, Renly. I’ll just completely butcher everything and ruin it. I mean, we’ve been friends for so long and I just can’t—I don’t want to mess things up and I will and she’s so sensitive and she never takes me seriously and what if she thinks I’m just joking and—”

A slap from Renly stops his rant. Robb nurses his cheek sullenly.

“You could have just told me to shut up,” Robb says.

“I know, but I thought this would be more effective. Stop it. You’re acting like you’re still in high school. You’re a grown man, Robb. I’d start acting like it if I were you. I’d walk in to the apartment today right, with some flowers and chocolate ’cause girls eat that up man, and just get on my knees and declare my undying love for Jeyne or some sappy stuff like that.” Renly nods. “Real talk, bro.”

“Stop trying to be a thug.”

“I’m all about that thug life though. You know me, you know how I do,” Renly jokes, nodding with a grin. “But seriously, bro. If you don’t tell Jeyne, I will.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Robb blanches.

“But I would.”

“Renly—”

“Robb Stark, I swear, if you don’t stop acting like you’re doing work and get out of here and tell that girl how you feel, I’ll beat the living snot out of you and make you tell her myself before I beat you bloody. You know I can too. Don’t test me, Robb. You hear me?” He slaps Robb again. “Man up, bro! Get out of here! Go get your lady!”

He drives home—it’s a real home now, because it has a touch of something, he’s not sure what, but whatever it is makes that apartment home. Maybe it’s the candles that Jeyne insists on lighting or her cooking or her plants on the balcony, or how his shirts sometimes smell like her when she slips them back in his closet like nothing happened, or the key bowl next to the door (he still manages to lose his keys anyway).

Or maybe it’s just Jeyne.

When he gets there, it smells like something sweet and the radio's on really loudly. Marina is lounging on the floor and licking her tounge. Jeyne’s baking. But why? Everyone’s been acting strangely today. His mother didn’t call him during lunch like she always did, Renly was being weird and extra thug-life-ish, and Ygritte gave him food, which she never ever does. And Jeyne’s baking.

Something’s weird.

“Oh!” she exclaims, walking out of the kitchen with a cupcake in her mouth. “You scared me, Robb!”

“Sorry… ?” he trails off, frowning. “What are you making?”

“Don’t you know what today is?”

“Why is everyone asking me what today is? It’s Thursday and—”

Jeyne hugs him, all honeysuckle and musk and summer, grinning into his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, dork,” she says, rubbing the cupcake in his face. She smiles at him, hints of a dimple in her cheeks as she beams at him, eyes sparkling and rainbow sprinkles in her hair. She’s got frosting on her hands and she’s wearing one of his shirts again. It’d be easy, so easy, to just say, “I love you,” but he refrains and just hugs her instead.

Some things are better left unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to start up a story blog, everyone! It can be found here: gameoffics.tumblr.com. I'll be posting updates and answering questions and I might even post up some fics that I haven't posted here yet. Maybe.


	8. Ygritte & Val

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. All Ygritte wants is love, and it seems like everyone else but her is getting some, like Robb and Jeyne, for example. Jon must think that she's some stupid little idiot and that she'll just stand for him to make a fool out of her. She won't, and neither will her best friend, Val.

Ygritte stares at her phone as Jon's phone call goes to voicemail again, sighing softly. She doesn't want to be angry with him, but it's gone on long enough.

It’s because of Daenerys Targaryen. 

And okay, granted, Daenerys is just a child (but the way she looks at Jon isn’t childlike at all) and Ygritte is a grown woman, but she’s not blind. She’s seen how Daenerys—Dany—drools over Jon, notes the lingering brushes and smiles and blushes, and the fact that she comes by the infirmary at least once an hour (and lingers when he’s around) don’t help her case out very much. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s liked Jon—he’s a nice guy (and too handsome for his own good)—but it is the first time that Jon’s hinted at liking this person back.

It’s not fair.

Ygritte found Jon first, she got him fair and square, and it’s not right, not right at all, that some little girl just comes out of nowhere and takes all of his time and attention away from places where they belong—namely, with Ygritte. She figures that since she’s his girlfriend and has been for most of her stay in the U.S. that it would mean something to him, that maybe it would make him rethink things and think twice about returning the pubescent drama queen’s affections. It doesn’t, though.

She mumbles along to the song on the stereo, loud and pissy and angsty, just how she’s feeling. She frowns, unsure of herself, and then takes another sip from her drink, staring down the door as she struggles to remember the name of the song through her drunken haze.

She’s spent most of her Saturday crying. The fact that she cried makes her more upset than the thing she cried over in the first place. Normally, she would have spent the day with Jon, maybe shopping or going to the movies or getting something to eat or just hanging or something. But not now. He’s probably with Dany, and the thought makes her want to cry again. She won’t. Val came over because they had plans for lunch and found her curled up on the couch with Titanic and some ice cream, huddled underneath a blanket and clutching the box of Kleenex.

She spills her guts to Val.

After she convinces Val not to get her boyfriend to beat Jon up, the girls go out for drinks despite the fact that it’s only one in the afternoon. She ends up with numbers from guys whose faces she can't remember and normally, she'd throw them away, but

See, Ygritte drove to Highgarden and waited on the porch for Jon, because she thought that maybe she overreacted—she’s been known to do that from time to time—until she sees Dany and Jon walking together, arm in arm, and Dany’s giggling like a little fool. It’s enough to make her feel sick, and after barreling through them, she sits in her car and cries for a good half hour. Renly calls her later that night and asks what happened and she just lies and tells him that she doesn’t know what he’s talking about and makes up something about dinner burning on the stove to get off the phone. 

Jon’s a good man, reliable, responsible, sturdy, stable, handsome and kind. He's great. He deals with her and Val and all their antics without complaints. He pays his bills on time and still talks to his family despite the fact that his stepmother doesn’t sound like the most pleasant woman in the world. He loves his brothers and sisters even though they’re not his brothers and sisters, technically (but they’re all he’s ever known, her sweet boy). And he doesn’t raise his voice at her—ever, not once, not until this morning—or his hands—never—or threaten to or treat her like she’s not worth anything—quite the opposite, actually. He loves her and she feels so lucky, so, so lucky, even if she doesn’t let on that she does.

So because he was so wonderful, Ygritte never thought that he’d go and pull something like this with Daenerys. But she should expected it. She taps the glass against the table and stares at the door, waiting for him to come. She wants him to beg for her forgiveness, to tell her that it means nothing, and she wants to believe it (even if she knows she can’t, she won’t, because she knows what she saw, saw it with her own two eyes).

She doesn’t wait very long, maybe four or five minutes before Jon comes in, sopping wet because it’s raining outside and she stole his umbrella out of the car a few days ago and might have forgotten to put it back. It’s what he deserves, she muses, itching for the bottle of brandy in the cabinet. But arguing drunk with Jon won’t solve anything and just prove whatever points he might want to make about her.

“Ygritte!” he exclaims when he sees her there. She almost wants to grab a towel and dry him off and laugh—almost but not quite. Instead Ygritte watches him for a few seconds in silence. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you all day!”

“I noticed. But I don’t think where I’ve been or where I haven’t been is really any of your business anymore,” she says softly. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here too, don’t I?” he asks with mild confusion.

“You do. I just thought you’d be busy with your precious little girl,” Ygritte replies evenly, laying her palm flat against the table. 

“Ygritte—”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“I know what I saw. Unless you’re gonna tell me there’s a new counselor who just looks so much like her that it’s uncanny?” She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think so.” He’s silent. “I can’t believe you’d—how could you do that to me? After—after everything we’ve—I—I just—I can’t believe this. Out of the people in the world—out of everyone I trusted—you were the one who—I—” She stops short, blinking quickly. She's not going to cry, not in front of him. “Why? What’d I ever do to you?”

“I can explain—”

“I'm sure you can,” she mocks, almost slurring as she shakes her head. “Don’t bother.” She scratches her head, laughing mirthlessly. “And you—you promised there was nothing there and I—it’s my fault, really. I believed you. And you lied to me, Snow. You lied. You filthy little liar.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” he says sternly. “I’ve never lied to you and—”

“Did she scream your name, huh? Jon,” she says, closing her eyes and making a fainting motion. He grabs her arms and she digs her nails into his hands, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’d get your hands off of me if I were you, yeah?”

“Ygritte, stop.”

“Stop what? How’d it happen, huh? She just bend herself over your desk? Snuck into your bed, aye? Throw herself at you? Lemme guess—it was an accident and things just happened.” She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I bet you loved every second of it. I deserve to know, don’t I?”

“Would you calm down?” he pleads. For a second—a fraction, only a tiny sliver—she wants to stop being angry and upset and act like it’s okay and like nothing happened—but she knows she can’t, and she won’t, and it’s not okay and she can’t act like it’s okay because Jon Snow lied to her and she’ll be damned if she lets him get away with it.

“Calm down? Calm—” She rolls her eyes. “How could you do this to me and then tell me to calm down? Are you out of your mind?”

“I didn’t do anything! If you’d just let me—”

“Don’t lie to me, Snow. Not right t’my face. Tell me the truth. I mean, that’s least you could do, don’t you think?” She pries his hands off, gulping. “I’d thank you if you kept your hands off me.”

“Ygritte, please.”

“Please, what? Please forgive me for being a cheating bastard, please forgive me for lying to you, please forgive me for being a waste of your time?” Her voice cracks. “Stop.”

“I—”

“Stop.”

“I didn’t—I’m not—I don’t—Ygritte—she’s just—she’s a kid, who I guess likes me or something, I don’t know. But I don’t—I’m not—I have you. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Except Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Would you—would you stop it? What do I have to do to convince you that I’m not interested in Dany at all?”

“That’s a great question,” she sighs, wrinkling her nose a little. “I don't know.” She pauses. “I can’t deal with this right now.” She grabs her keys and rubs her face, slipping into some sandals.

“Ygritte.” She ignores him, shoving her phone into her pocket as she avoids his stare. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?” She looks at him icily. “I’m leaving you.” She shakes her head. “What else am I supposed to do? Just stay here and let you make a fool out of me?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Please, just—”

“I don’t think I really wanna talk to you right now, Jon. I really don’t.”

And so for an entire week, she hasn’t. He hasn’t bothered showing his face around the infirmary, and if he has, Shae has seen to Ygritte not seeing him. She spends her lunch hour with Sansa every day. It's nice, kind of. 

Except on Wednesday, when Daenerys just waltzes right in without saying a word and it takes all of Ygritte’s willpower not to strangle her right then and there. She knows they broke up, every one knows by now, and she seems so infuriatingly smug that Ygritte comes very close to giving her the 'wrong' headache pills. Jon keeps calling her and she keeps ignoring him because she doesn't know what she can say to him that doesn't involve her crying, and she won't cry for him, not anymore and not ever again. 

For the most part, everyone thinks she's okay. Sansa and Shae have been convinced that she doesn't need anything or anyone and that she's perfectly fine without him. She was okay before him and she'd be okay after him. Robb asks her about Jon and she tells him that she never wants to see Jon again (and after that, Jon had been particularly mopey, not that Ygritte cared). Arya is mad because she doesn't understand what the big deal is - it's not like they really did anything - because she can't see her older brother doing anything so depraved. 

Despite her happy front, Ygritte’s sad, so very sad, but at least Sansa and Shae are sad too. But then again, Sansa has Willas Tyrell, someone else to focus on, maybe, which Ygritte Frost does not.

The last time she talks to Jon goes a little like this:

“I miss you.”

“I still hate you.”

“I still love you.”

“I saw you kiss her,” she confesses quietly. 

Daenerys thought she was being sneaky, kissing Jon in his room like no one was going to find them. She saw them in the doorway, and left before they saw her, slamming into Cersei on the way down the stairs.

“It didn’t—”

“Screw you, Jon Snow,” Ygritte spits, slapping him as she walks away from him.

“Ygritte!”

“What part of screw you didn’t you understand?!”

She’s been staying with Val for the last few days. It’s nice, they go out for drinks every night, and everything's just the way it used to be before she met Jon and before everything completely went to pieces.

“I want to go home,” Ygritte says, moving the ice in her glass with her straw slowly. Val raises an eyebrow.

“We just got here! And I thought we were putting the moves on the bartender tonight!” The bartender flirts with everyone, but Val thinks that he flirts more with Ygritte. It could just be all the alcohol getting to her, but who knows? Val wriggles her eyebrows at her, smiling impishly. Ygritte’s stuck between finally calling things off for good with Jon or making him apologize and sort of moving back into what is technically their apartment. She wonders why she left in the first place before shaking her head.

“That’s not what I meant. I want to go home, Val.” 

Val narrows her eyes at Ygritte, setting her phone down. Jarl's asking when they plan on leaving so he can give them a ride home because he doesn't want them driving home drunk or catching a ride from some sleazy cab driver.

“What? What are you talking about?” She shakes her head as she grasps Ygritte’s meaning. “You can’t go home. This is our home, silly. We live here.”

“I just think that if I—” Val cuts her off, frowning and waving her hand.

“You’re not—you can’t, Ygritte, you—I—no,” Val protests, sniffling. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. Stop. You stop that right now.”

“Maybe… I mean, maybe some distance from everything might be a good idea,” Ygritte mentions quietly, downing her shot. “I don’t know, Val. I mean—”

“Distance is New York City, Ygritte. Las Vegas? That’s distance. Seattle, even. Boston, okay sure. You're going back to Ireland? Really?”

Ygritte met Val during an internship at the children’s hospital downtown. It turned out that Val was from Dublin too, and her friendship helped ease Ygritte’s homesickness bit by bit. Val had been there for everything—for her first date with Jon and for their housewarming party and for their first anniversary and their fights and just everything that had ever happened between them ever. 

And so of course she’s there for Ygritte during Jon’s supposed infidelity. Ygritte fawns over how wonderful Jon is—he’s a delight, honest and brave and handsome and every other good thing under the sun. Val tried to tell her that there really wasn’t something right about the guy and tried setting her up with her friend, but Ygritte insisted that Jon was the one for her. Until, of course, she started catching him with the little succubus everyone called Daenerys Targaryen. It wasn’t like he was doing anything blatantly sexual, but the intent was there, of course. A lingering glance here, a touch that lasted a second or two longer than it should have there… 

“I don’t think I should be here anymore, you know? I had my fun, I—I went to school and I met someone, you know? Things happen. I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Val narrows her eyes at Ygritte and squints, sniffling.

“You’re not going home. I won’t let you.”

“I think I should. It's time. I was talking to my mum about it the other day, you know. She thinks it’s a good idea.”

“Of course she does! She misses you.”

“I mean, I’m not staying forever. Just… just until things cool down, you know? I’ll come back, at some point.”

“They are cool! Everything’s cool, Ygritte! I mean, Jon’s a tool and you don’t need him and we can—we can find you someone else if that’s what it is—”

“It’s not—it’s not Jon. If it were him I’d have left a while ago, don’t you think? I just can’t stay here anymore. Everything reminds me of him and if I stay here I’m—” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to be here right now. I miss Ireland. I miss my mum and my friends and my dog and my bed and the pub and everyone and I just—I wanna feel like no one’s starin’ at me because I’m Jon Snow’s girlfriend. I can get a job a hospital or a clinic somewhere, I dunno. Maybe I’ll go to Wales for a bit. I have an aunt that lives there. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I just know I wanna go home.”

“Stop it. You’re being crazy, Ygritte and—”

“I’m going crazy, Val. I need to just clear my head and leave and just figure myself out.”

Val’s shoulders fall as she resigns herself to the fact that Ygritte’s already made up her mind about this and there’s not much she can do to get her to change her mind. Ygritte offers her friend a small smile, sighing.

“Let’s go talk to that bartender, yeah?”

Some drinks later, she’s laughing and hanging off Bronn—the bartender—and slipping out of her shoes as they go to his car. Val’s whistling at them as she gets in her own car, driving away. She grins at him as they drive to his dorm—he’s a student at the university and for a moment she thinks of Jon, but shakes her head because she’s trying to assert her independence and move on and she can’t do that if she’s still hung up on him. So off to his dorm they go—he wants to be a pharmacist—and the whole time she’s convincing herself that this is okay and it doesn’t matter because he’s probably messing around with Daenerys Targaryen right now (the thought makes her feel sick to her stomach) and it doesn’t matter.

Jon doesn’t matter and Bronn doesn’t matter—she’s just trying to feel numb for the first time in days.

“Let’s go to your room,” she slurs, curling his hair with her fingers with her bright smile, biting her lip. She can’t help but to think of Jon again, and it’s awful and it’s not fair and he’s such a dick and she hates him and loves him all at the same time and it’s aggravating. And Bronn grins because he thinks he’s going to get laid and it’s probably going to happen, but when Ygritte throws up all over his shoes and the carpet in the hallway it puts a damper on the evening.

She kind of runs away after that, heading into the nearest restroom and finishes throwing up in the sink, wiping her mouth with the back of her clammy hand when she’s done. The girl in the mirror has runny make up and red eyes and a red nose and her hair’s a mess and there are chunks of what she ate for dinner—shrimp cocktails—on her shirt. She laughs cheaply, rinsing out her mouth with water from the sink. She grabs some toilet paper and cleans her face off, biting her lip because she’s cried enough tears for Jon Snow and refuses to cry anymore.

Ygritte walks home in her bra and shorts and with her shoes and sweater in her hand, drunkenly crooning some ABBA into the early morning hours. She stumbles into Val’s apartment a little after five. 

Val always works odd hours, which means that she leaves early enough that Ygritte has to fake being asleep to avoid being questioned about last night.

Later that morning she calls Stannis—but the ugly red woman picks up, so she has to go through an intense questioning about why she’s unable to go into work to tend to the children of the rich and famous (and the Targaryens) today. She coughs and hacks and explains that unless Melisandre wants her to get the children sick, she should probably stay home. Melisandre scoffs and tells her she’ll be receiving a call from Mr. Baratheon later on—but Ygritte doubts it and hangs up without another word.

She then spends the next half hour buying a one way ticket to Dublin. 

Ygritte figures that it might be best if she leaves soon. She wants to call Jon and can’t resist, picking up her phone before she can think twice about it. She knows he won’t pick up because it’s time for breakfast and he’ll be too busy dicking around with Renly and Robb to notice her phone call. She gnaws on her bottom lip while his voicemail plays, her heart squeezing in her chest.

“Um, hi.” She pauses, rubbing her temples. “I—it’s me. I just wanted to say a couple of things. Um… well, first—I wish that things were different between us right now but for obvious reasons they’re not. I'm okay and I hope you are too.” She takes a breath. It’s going good so far. She’s not crying or anything, which what she’s been doing too much lately. “Anyway, I wish you the best and I hope that you find true happiness with someone else, ’cause, apparently, given recent events, it wasn’t, uh, it wasn’t me who made you happy. I don’t know. I'll see you around.”

She digs the tips of her fingers into her eyes with a heavy sigh, sniffling and frowning as she tells herself that enough is enough and there’s really no reason for her to cry about someone who doesn’t care about her anymore.

Ygritte spends most of her day packing, and is so engrossed in sorting her belongings away that she doesn’t notice when Val comes home.

“Ygritte!” she exclaims, wide-eyed as she watches her friend tape some boxes together. Ygritte looks at her and smiles before going back to her boxes, coughing a little.

“You’re home early.”

“What are you doing?”

“I told you I was going home, didn’t I?”

“And I told you that you weren’t.” Ygritte shakes her head, folding up some clothes into her box. “Stop that.” She snatches the clothes from her and Ygritte frowns, knitting her eyebrows together. She stands up and gathers some more clothes, dumping them into the box. “Stop!”

“You’re being ridiculous, Val. I’m going back to Dublin and that’s—”

“That’s what’s ridiculous, Ygritte. You’re running away.” She tilts her head and wraps a picture frame in bubble wrap, frowning.

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re scared and you’re running away!”

“Who am I running away from?”

“You know who.”

“He has a name, you know. And I’m not running away from him. I—if—if he wants to you know, do whatever he’s doing now, he can—he can do that. It’s none of my business anymore, is it?” She nods as if convincing herself, smiling a little as she wraps photo albums. “And I mean, it’s okay. I’m fine—”

“It’s not fine! Holy crap, Ygritte! Some girl just stole your man and you’re going back to Dublin and that’s it? That’s—that’s just it? No nothing?”

“Yeah, I mean, there’s nothing for me to—”

Val shakes her head, throwing up her hands. Ygritte sighs, sitting back down as she tapes up one box and starts packing another.

“What would you have me do? I don’t have time to stomp down to Highgarden and make a scene, okay? I don't want to, either. I’m really busy and I’m over Jon and he can do as he pleases with whomever he wants.” She shrugs and tucks some hair behind her shoulder, sighing.

“Stop it. Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ygritte Frost? You know her? She wouldn’t have made excuses and she’d have gone down to Highgarden and ripped that little slut a new one and kicked some serious butt, man! She would have shown him who’s boss and—”

“It’s not worth it.”

Val raises an eyebrow.

“But I thought he was the love of your life! The one!” Ygritte’s face falls as her lips narrow into a thin line. “I thought you were soul mates.”

“Well, he obviously wasn’t, was he? It’s fine. I should have known better, obviously, and I didn’t, but you know you live and learn, right?” She laughs cheaply. “I need to go buy more tape.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Well, believe it, ’cause I am.” Ygritte rubs an eye, kneeling with a heavy sigh. “It’ll be nice, I think. Just takin’ a break and not having to deal with everyone and everything for a while.” She smiles. “I can’t wait. I can start smoking again and drink whenever I feel like it and I don’t have to explain anything to anybody. It’ll be an adventure, Val! You’ll see. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call all the time and we can Skype and maybe I’ll even come back for New Year’s or something—”

“Or you could just stay here because this is your home too, because your friends are here and because your job is here and because it’s not fair that you’re running away because you’re fighting with your boyfriend.” Ygritte stays silent. “Or you could just take back what’s yours and show Daenerys who she’s messing with.” Val is almost crying. “You can’t seriously be leaving!”

“I’m not leaving for a couple of days, Val. Relax.”

“My best friend is leaving, like moving to the other side of the world and I’m supposed to relax?” She shakes her head. “You’re messing with me, obviously.” She goes to her room and Ygritte shrugs, packing her things again. It’s for the best, she reminds herself. She and Jon need some space.

Maybe the Atlantic Ocean will be enough.

Or maybe it’s not.

She doesn’t know anymore.

When Val comes back out of her room, her black hair is in a ponytail and she’s got her rings on, some shorts and a t-shirt and her old sneakers. Ygritte groans. Those are her scrapping clothes.

“Val—”

“You can’t stop me from doing this. If you’re leaving, and that thing you call a man is the reason why, then I at least get to at least rip him a new one ’cause you won’t.”

“Val! He’s still at work.”

“So? I’ll drive down to Highgarden then. Even better. I can beat her sorry soul too. You can’t stop me,” she says firmly, shaking her pony tail as she puts on some sunglasses. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some stuff to go deal with.”

☼

Val is nothing if not a dedicated friend. 

And she’ll basically be damned if she lets Jon Snow get away with ruining someone who once was one of the most vivacious and spontaneous people she had ever met in her entire life. It just wasn’t happening. Who did he think he was? He lived a privileged life that made him think that he could do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and someone (Val) had to explain to him that the world just didn’t work that way.

She drives to their—now his—apartment first, figuring that it won’t hurt to see if he’s hiding out because he can’t take the shame of what he’s done or something as sickeningly noble as that. Jon Snow is, or thinks he is, a horribly honorable and honest and loyal and noble person, but given recent events, Val has every reason to believe the opposite.

She sees his car in the drive way and narrows her eyes. She knew he was home. She could feel it. So she storms the building, completely disregarding the doorman (“What're you starin’ at?”) as she takes the elevator to the fifth floor. Val stomps down the hallway, balling up her fists and digging her nails into her palms.

She’s pissed.

“Open up!” she yells, slamming her fists against the door angrily. “Oi! Jon Snow!”

In a few minutes she’s met with Jon Snow, miserable and pathetic and almost upsetting enough to make her want to punch his face in. And she almost does—almost, but remembers that Ygritte would like Jon in one piece and hopefully alive, even if he is kind of a major tool. Val is seething. She told Ygritte this would happen. She told her that Jon was sneaky and there wasn’t something right about the kid, but no. So now Val has to take matters into her own hands because Ygritte’s basically losing it and can’t (or won’t, Val doesn’t know any more) do this herself.

“What do you want?” he asks in that pitiful voice. Val’s not falling for it.

“What did you do to her, huh?” Val asks, shoving him into his apartment.

“What?”

“You heard me!” she exclaims, shoving him again. “How could you do that to her?”

“What? What are you even—”

“Ygritte! You know, your girlfriend? You kind of cheated on her with an infant? Remember? I mean, I’ve been wondering… how do you think Catelyn Tully-Stark would feel about her bastard son cheating on his girlfriend with a Targaryen? Huh?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“She saw you kiss her!”

“I’m—”

“You are a pathetic excuse for a man!” She pinches her nose, leaning against the wall. “How could you do that to her? What did she ever do to you?! All she ever did was love you. You were the only thing she ever really wanted.” She shakes her head, hurling one of the pictures at the wall at him. “She loved you! She loved you, Jon Snow!” He ducks as the frame meets the wall and shatters, the picture sliding underneath the couch as glass sprays across the floor.

“Val, I—”

“Ygritte was the best thing that could ever, and will ever, happen to you. D'you kno' tha'?”

“Val!”

“What does Daenerys have that Ygritte doesn’t? What is it? I mean, is it ’cause she’s like, what, twelve? That kind of stuff get you all riled up, hm?”

“She’s sixteen.”

“And that makes it better?!” she shrieks, hurling one of Ygritte’s many knick knacks at him. It catches him right in the chest. “She’s sixteen so it’s okay, that’s what you’re telling me? I wonder what Ned Stark is gonna do when he finds out his son is Daenerys Targaryen, the sixteen year old!”

“I’m not—”

“Like hell you’re not,” she scoffs. “I’m not Ygritte and I wasn’t born yesterday. She might believe you, but I don’t. You’re a dirty liar, Snow.”

“It’s complicated, Val. You don’t understand and you wouldn’t understand even if I tried to explain it to you. And I don’t think it’s fair that you just show up here and break things and throw things and act like I’m this horrible person. I didn’t do anything to you. Was I dating you too? This is between me and my girlfriend and I don’t know who you think you are or why you’re getting so mad at me when—”

“She’s leaving, Snow. Did you know that? Ygritte’s leaving. She's goin' home.”

“What? No, she’s not.” He shakes his head, laughing a little. “She—she would have told me if she was. I mean, she left a message but I didn’t think anything of it. I was actually going to call her back until you came in and started going off—”

“She’s going back to Dublin because of you, you idiot!”

“What? No, she’s not. Ygritte wouldn’t just pick up and leave and not tell me anything. She—why would she do that?”

“Because you’re a jerk, Snow! How many times to I need to repeat myself before you get it? She loved you and you lied and told her you loved her too. If you loved her, really and truly loved her as much as she loved you, you wouldn’t have done it. All she ever wanted was you, Snow. That’s it. I remember when she first met you. You were all she could talk about, you know? And now, you turn around and pull something like this. That’s why I’m mad at you, okay? You hurt my friend, my best friend. She’s like—she’s like the only family I have here. We’re like sisters, Snow. You wouldn’t know anything about that, I know. You betrayed her and now she’s going back to Ireland.”

She shakes her head. Jon is still shaking his. Does he think she’s kidding or something? 

“You’re taking my best friend away from me and you don’t even care! You’ve ruined everything for her. You know that? I mean—”

“What?”

“I feel so bad for her. She can’t go to work because she sees you all the time, and she told the hospital she’s taking the summer off to work at the camp so it’s not like she can just go back there. She can’t even go shopping or out or do anything without those vultures crawling all over her asking about you and what happened and everything else. We went to pick up the dry cleaning yesterday and when we got to her car, she had to shove her way through all the reporters and she—she couldn’t even drive because she was crying and we had to pull over so I could drive us home. Don’t you understand? She’s miserable, Jon. I’ve never seen her like this. She can’t live her life anymore. 

“And this is all because you decided it’d be a great idea to bury your inadequacies in some stupid girl. Good for you. Do you feel better, huh? Are you happy? Does she make you happy? I hope she does,” Val sniffles. “I hope Ygritte losing her mind over you and quitting her job and losing everything she here was worth it.”

“I—I know. And I’ve lost count of how many times I told her I’m sorry.” He pauses, shaking his head as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I think you should go now, Val.”

“I think you should just man up to what you’ve done.” She shrugs, cracking her knuckles. “But I guess that’s not gonna happen, is it? It takes a real man to do that, and it’s obvious that you’re not. I suppose I should leave you here by yourself, though. You’re so pathetic you’re making me sick. I hope you’re as miserable as she is. I hope you think about Ygritte every miserable second of every miserable minute of every miserable day of your miserable life, you understand me? I hope you think about what you did to her while you’re fooling around with that girl and that you remember everything Ygritte did for you while you lie to everyone else and tell them nothing’s going on with you two. I hope you remember how you ruined her life and that it makes you so sick you want to vomit.” She gets right in his face, jabbing her finger in his face. “I hope you rot, Snow. And just so you know, she went out last night and went home with the bartender and didn’t come home until the crack of dawn. I just want you to think about that.”

She pats his cheek and leaves, slamming the door on her way out.

☼

Ygritte sighs and takes a deep breath. This is her house too. She has every right to be her and get her things together. It’s okay.

She puts her key in the door and unlocks it, wincing at how it creaks when she opens it slowly. It’s okay. She can be here. She can do this. It’s fine. She shouldn’t be afraid. What’s he going to do to her? Val and Jarl are waiting downstairs anyway. It’ll be okay. She finds Jon watching TV sullenly, a box of pizza discarded on the floor. He spares her a glance and lowers the volume. The apartment feels cold despite the fact that the windows are open and it’s almost ninety degrees today. She’ll miss the warmth back in Ireland, she thinks idly, gnawing on her lip as she looks around. It’s clean though, everything’s clean and the way she left it before… everything. It’s almost like he doesn’t need her and it hurts more than she’s willing to admit.

“Hi,” she says softly, biting the inside of her cheek. He looks at her with his plaintively somber expression that he’s basically perfected over the years, raising an eyebrow.

“Ygritte.”

“Sorry to drop in on you like this.”

“We need to talk.”

“I just—I just to get the rest of my things, Jon. I don’t really wanna talk about anything right now, I—”

“Not even about the guy from last night? Was he good at least? Was it worth it?”

“What?” She frowns, knitting her eyebrows together.

“’Cause apparently we’re allowed to see other people and I didn’t get the memo.”

“Um, hello?!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “You practically wrote the memo! That whole thing with Daenerys? I thought that it was pretty clear we could see other people when you shoved your tongue down her throat, no?” She’s angry again, not sad, and it takes everything in her not to claw his face off. “So it’s okay if you’re foolin' around but when I am, it’s a problem, yeah? Shut up.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Was he good? What kind of question is that? I didn’t—we didn’t do anything! I couldn’t because I kept thinking about you and I just couldn’t do anything. I got sick. I just… couldn’t. Even though I should have, now that I think about it, would have served you right—” She groans, shaking her head. “I just—we’re not talking about this. There’s nothing left to talk about. You’ve made your choices and I’ve made mine.”

Ygritte makes to go to the bedroom and he follows, standing in the doorway as she starts pulling her clothes from the hangers in the closet, ignoring the way she can feel his eyes boring into her back. She is strong and she will cry for no man, no more, never again, and she will not be at the mercy of someone who couldn’t love her as much as she loved him. No.

“Where are you going?” he asks as she folds them all up and looks from some bags. She looks back at him, frowning.

“I’m not allowed to get my things? I don’t live here anymore, remember? I left you. I think I have the right to get my things without being interrogated by the likes of you. I don’t owe you any explanations anymore.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking about and you know that. Where are you going, Ygritte?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“You going to Dublin and not saying a word isn’t any of my concern?” She shakes her head as she balls up a dress. “I have to find out from Val, of all people, but I shouldn’t be worried. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Yeah. I don’t see why it would be any of your business, considering the fact that you’re too busy messing around with a child to notice much else… ”

“I haven’t done anything with her! How many times to I have to apologize before you understand that I’m sorry and I feel bad and that I haven’t done anything? And I’m just assuming that as your boyfriend it should kind of be something you bring up in conversation. Maybe a phone call or a message or even a text would have been nice. Hey Jon, I’m going to Dublin, see ya later!” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Why are you leaving?”

“Give me one good reason why I should stay,” she says stonily, starting to go through the drawers. “What’s left for me here?”

“Us.”

“There is no us. I think you did a pretty solid job of ruining us. There’s me, and then there’s you. We're not together anymore. This is me breaking up with you.”

“Don’t say things like that,” he says softly, face falling. “Please.”

“Why the hell not? It’s not like you care, is it?” She dumps entire drawers on the bed, shoving things randomly in bags as she sniffles and looks down at the bed. “I’m finally out of your hair. You obviously want your freedom and if I can’t have you I might as well give you what I can, right? I hope you find whatever it is that I couldn’t give you with someone else, even if it’s not her.”

“Ygritte—”

“I’d thank you if you kept my name out of your mouth, okay?” She piles her bags together on the bed. “I—I’m leaving for Dublin in three days. I’d thank you if you could find some way to get my linens and pictures and other things to Val’s before then. Otherwise her boyfriend’s gonna come get them and I don’t really think you want Jarl here, do you?”

“Please don’t leave.”

“Why should I stay? What’s left for me here? Some—some job in a place I can’t stand, you, and her and everything else? Everything reminds me of you. I just want to be somewhere where I can breathe and not feel like I’m going to fall apart. Don’t I deserve that, after everything? I just want to try to be happy again. And I can’t do that with you right now. I don’t love you anymore. I—”

“You don’t mean that, I know you don’t. I love you, Ygritte. We can fix it, I know we can, I—”

“I’m not one of Bran’s trains. You can’t just fix me, you know? I’m a person and you’re a person and we had a relationship that you royally up all by yourself and you can’t just fix that with I’m sorry, love.”

“I—”

“Val’s waiting for me downstairs and if I don’t get going she’ll come back up here and—I should get going, I think.”

“Let me help you,” he offers quietly. She glares but complies, watching as he takes the suitcases and bags off the bed. They walk down to the elevator silently. Ygritte studies her reflection in the steel and Jon looks down at the bags in his hands. When they get outside, Val’s yelling at the reporters and Jarl’s sitting inside the car, smoking a cigarette.

“You’re all a bunch of bloody vultures! Can’t you just leave her alone?!” 

Ygritte swallows thickly, almost hiding behind Jon but refrains. 

It’s an old habit.

When they first started dating, it was hard to get used to, the paparazzi and the trashy magazine columnists hanging off their every move. Of course, they weren’t like Robb and Jeyne, who couldn’t so much as hint at going somewhere without the press swarming all over them like flies, but it was still kind of jarring to have someone snap pictures of you walking down the street with your boyfriend and have to act like it was okay and not weird at all. She’d bury her face in his shoulder and laugh and blush while he gently pushed them through the small crowd. He tried to shelter her from it, but she didn’t mind them so much, as long as she had him. After a while she got used to it and it wasn’t so bad. Her run ins with them were maybe once or twice a month, if that, and even then it was just the lone creep or small group of sleazeballs that a good tongue lashing got rid of.

But now she’d have to face the world all by herself, like she’d been doing for the last few days. 

How they even found out that they broke up was beyond her.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jon says softly, glancing over at her.

“I do.” She takes a step forward and winces at the flashes and swarm of people, trying to ignore their questions. She doesn’t know how he does it, how he doesn’t snap. She feels like she’s reached her wits end with these people. Jarl gets out and helps her with her things, shooting a glare at Jon when he tries to step in. They get her things squared away while Val keeps yelling at the press, telling them to find real jobs, something more worthwhile than prying in people’s private lives.

They keep asking about Dany and Jon and the fact that they do means that he hasn’t bothered to keep it private—or that Dany can’t keep her mouth shut—rubs more salt in the wound than Ygritte thought possible. She doesn’t know what to say so she just stays silent and shoots him sullen looks, wondering what on Earth it is that he’s been doing that has them asking her all these questions.

Ygritte sits in the car soon after, sinking into the seat with closed eyes. She wants to cry in the privacy of her bedroom, alone, after Jarl and Val have gone to bed. She doesn’t want to be sad anymore. She wants to wake up and have this all be an awful dream.

Her next three days are a blur of packing and moving and paying for things to be sent ahead to her old flat, which is thankfully unoccupied, of sending her resignation letter to Stannis and having to think of an excuse that’s actually plausible (her mother’s having surgery and needs Ygritte to take care of her), and of packing everything else can take to the airport with her.

Friday morning is sunny and bright and beautiful, balmy breezes playing with her hair as she pulls a hat on her head. She wrinkles her nose, sunglasses sliding up as she smokes a cigarette. Val and Jarl couldn’t stay and that’s okay, they said their goodbyes and went out for a celebratory dinner and drinks at the pub—Jon calls it a bar and they used to fight about it all the time, before—before everything got so messed up.

She takes a drag on her cigarette, shaking her head. It’s not worth remembering. If she doesn’t remember, she can stay numb, and if she can stay numb, she can step on the plane and not feel like she’s making one of the biggest mistakes of her entire life. She sighs heavily, flicking the cigarette on the sidewalk as she dragged her suitcase cart inside. She thought she did a pretty decent job of covering up with her black sweater and leggings and boots and big black floppy hat and big sunglasses, but it’s her hair that gives her away, god damn it. 

She catches the first reporter while she drinks her morning coffee—it’s a habit Jon got her into, and it makes her a little sad to think that she’ll have to get used to piping hot tea instead of steamy coffee in the morning—and looks at them stonily before tugging on the brim of her hat some more and walking away to somewhere more secluded.

It doesn’t get any better.

At least they’re not asking her about Dany anymore.

Ygritte’s flying to Dublin in comfort, meaning that she waits in a quiet lounge with stuffy businessmen and their wives or business partners or whoever. It’s nice and quiet and gives her time to reflect on the events of the last few days—catching Dany and Jon, the Bronn fiasco, the hasty decision to go home. She chews on her lip, staring out the window at the planes that arrive and depart. It feels like her flight will never arrive, but soon enough, she’s drinking the last bits of her coffee and trying to readjust her backpack as she walks forward in the line, not paying attention to anything going on around her because it’s all pretty mundane and she doesn’t really care anymore, anyway. Does anything even matter anymore? That’s probably why she doesn’t notice Jon until she barrels right into him.

She prepares for reporters asking her about Dany. (“She’s a sweet girl, a little misguided though.”) She prepares for being asked by Jon. (“Things are complicated right now, and I think we both just need some space to deal with things going on in both our lives.”) She’s even ready to answer those who ask about Jon and Dany. (“You want to ask them that question, because I really don’t even know anymore.” Cue awkward giggle.) But she’s not ready to see Jon here, up close and personal.

She shouldn’t have told him she was leaving.

She stiffens when he steadies her, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses, trying to steel herself. She will have a heart of stone, no mercy, no pity, nothing. She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t care for him. She doesn’t miss him. She doesn’t even know him anymore. She repeats these things to herself as she opens her eyes, but quickly forgets them all when they lock eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks softly, swallowing past the thick lump in her throat.

“I wanted to say goodbye. Properly, I mean.” 

“Yeah?” She chews on her bottom lip. “Good for you. Is this going to make you feel better? Like you tried?”

“No. I just wanted to tell you that I’m gonna miss you. I’m gonna miss you yelling at the alarm clock to shut up and burning breakfast every morning and complaining about how much you hate everyone and everything. I want to go back and change everything and I can’t. All I can do is ask you to forgive me. Again.”

“And I can’t.”

“I know.” And then their foreheads kind of just meet and they stand there, quiet and smiling bitterly, because that’s all they can really do. “I think Val was right.”

“About what?”

“You’re best thing that’s ever going to me.”

“Jon—”

“And I messed up and now you’re leaving and I can’t stop you and I’m going to miss you so much.”

“Don’t say things like that. I don’t want to miss you more than I already do, and you’re making me miss you and you’re making me want to stay and I can’t stay, I can’t. You can’t make me, I—”

“I know, I know,” he replies. “You need to be happy and I can’t give that to you anymore apparently, so… so go and be happy without me.”

“I don’t wanna be happy without you,” she almost says. Almost, but reminds herself that she’ll have a heart of stone and won’t be neither swayed nor moved by any acts of devotion. It could all very well be a ruse and she’s not falling for it again. So instead she stays silent and lets him cup her cheek, squeezing her eyes shut so they don’t start leaking tears, breathing shallowly.

“Do you still love me?” She doesn’t know anymore, one minute she does and the next she wants to castrate him, so she doesn’t think she can honestly answer his question. She stays silent. “’Cause I still love you.”

“You used to,” is her simple reply, kissing the corner of his lips. “Take care.” 

She walks away from him then, making her way to the flight attendant who checks her ticket and passport before letting her board. She can feel his eyes on her back and she wants to look back and run and kiss him and tell him she loves him too, but she won’t. She can’t.

She shuts the tiny screen on her window, settling into her seat with a tiny frown, swallowing past her tears.

It’s for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting somewhere. I promise.


	9. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's so messed up. How did this even happen? He's always been so careful to avoid drama, but it seems that lately, no matter how hard he tries, he always finds himself smack dab in the middle of something htat usually has nothing to do with him. First, Willas and Sansa have something going, but not really, and then out of nowhere Ygritte and Jon break up and Ygritte goes back to Ireland. And he broke up with Arya and now she's with Trystane (or something) and it's so weird.

He can’t sleep. Then again, he couldn’t sleep last night either. It’s raining and the roof is leaking into the tin bucket in the middle of the floor loudly. Plop. Plop. Plop. Will’s dead asleep though, one arm hanging off the bed as the sheet covers him haphazardly and he snores softly.

Good for Will. 

The kid’s had it rough lately, what with Sansa and Joffrey and his sister and everything else.

But so has Gendry. The last week has probably been the craziest week of his entire life. First, he and Garlan, Will’s brother, had to scare the living daylights out of Joffrey and hopefully not risk the wrath of his bratty mother and uncle, Cersei and Jaime Lannister. That went okay, but it was still mildly exhausting and irritating because Loras said that they couldn’t hit him hard enough to bruise because he didn’t want Joffrey to have any evidence that they did anything.

Then he had the whole visit thing, which was mildly discouraging because his mom was all drunk—he liked calling her indisposed, a word Melisandre taught him during his visits to his uncle’s office—and couldn’t, for obvious reasons, come to visit him. Not that he wanted to see her, but he kind of did, and it really kind of sucked that she wasn’t coming. Granted, he saw Robert every day (he couldn’t call him his dad because he was a really bad excuse for one) and it didn’t bother him as much as it used to, but it would have been kind of nice to see his mom be sober for once.

And then he broke up with Arya because she couldn’t tell her mom and dad that he was her boyfriend and kind of sort of kissed Trystane Martell. In front of him.

It’s been weird.

Gendry’s used to Arya sneaking into his bed at some point, even if they usually don’t get up to anything because Will is right there and it’d be weird, but since they broke up, he’s been sleeping alone. He’s used to Arya stealing food off his plate at breakfast and making a face at lunch and playing with her food at dinner, but now he eats with Will and Margaery and Sansa. Arya conveniently disappears with Trystane and it makes him jealous and nauseous and nervous all at the same time. Arya even takes late night walks with Trystane. (Renly told him he saw them together and asked about the breakup. It was awkward.)

Are they something? He shouldn't really care because they broke up and since she didn't even have the decency to tell him the truth it's obvious that she doesn't care about their relationship, she doesn't care either. He still does though, and it annoys him.

When he asks Will, Will just laughs and tells him not to be ridiculous.

So he doesn’t know.

He misses Arya. He does, and it’s weird because she’s not the type of person to be missed because she’s always just there. Until, of course, she’s not. Gendry huffs and stares at the ceiling, watching the water drip into the bucket. It’s getting on his nerves. Arya loves the rain, which only makes him more restless. Will stirs and eventually awakens, sitting up in the dark. He rummages through the drawer and pulls out one of his fancy handkerchiefs, holding it up to his nose. Those are the kind of people Arya likes. People like Will and Trystane, cultured and refined. Those are the people she should like. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

“I miss Arya.”

“I miss Sansa.”

The Stark girls will be the deaths of Gendry Waters and Willas Tyrell.

He watches the sun rise as he analyzes his relationship. It had its’ ups and downs like any other relationship. Arya liked to fight. He liked to fight. (That’s how they met. She beat the crap out of him and he fell in love.) They were opposites in almost everything but it was okay because opposites attract and he wouldn’t want to date someone like himself anyway. There was lot of sneaking around, but most teenage relationships involve some measure of secrecy. And then he starts thinking about the downs—her refusal to talk about Bran and deal with his accident, her stubbornness and her need to get her way all the time and how she shrank from most displays of affection in public.

It dawns on Gendry that he told her he loved her at least three times a day, but he can only recall of five separate instances in which she ever said it back.

The day creeps and crawls by slowly. He sits on the dock again and watches Arianne and Myrcella on the beach. Sansa conveniently manifests and looks like she’s crying—when isn’t Sansa Stark in tears lately?—and so Will leaves Gendry to sulk and mope about the end of his relationship alone while he goes and comforts her. Sometimes it feels surreal and like it’s all been a really bad dream, until he hears her laughing at one of his jokes.

It’s enough to make him sick.

Robb Stark, of course, has to notice. Sansa and Robb look like their mother with their auburn hair and big blue eyes and perfect smiles, but Arya’s like Ned Stark, brown hair and grey eyes and cheeky grin (Arya never smiles, always grins or grimaces or frowns).

“Is everything okay?” Robb asks during lunch a few days later. “You’ve been really quiet lately.”

“I broke up with your sister.” Robb nods slowly. “She kind of didn’t tell your parents about us. Which I understand, but I don’t see why she had to lie to me about it. And now she’s with Trystane.”

“Oh. I heard about that,” he says awkwardly.

“It kind of really sucks.”

“I’m sorry, Gendry.”

“It’s not your fault.” He picks listlessly at his string beans, propping his head up on his hand.

“I think she’s just friends with Trystane, Gendry. You don’t have much to worry about there. I think he likes your cousin Myrcella,” Robb jokes lightly, nudging him with his elbow. Gendry laughs mirthlessly, lips twitching a little. “Arya’s a…” He pauses, gnawing on his lip. “She’s kind of… complicated and slightly difficult, you know? She kind of just does things her own way and doesn’t—sometimes—think about the consequences of her actions. You can’t blame her, though. Our mom is scary and she’s really hard on Arya sometimes. Maybe Arya was just scared.”

“Maybe she’s just a coward.”

Friday morning, Jon announces, with mild sniffles and thick voice, that Ygritte Frost has taken a leave of absence and while they find her replacement, Shae will be standing in her place. (Jon says he’s sick, but something in the way he talks and looks like he hasn’t slept in days makes him think that Ygritte’s absence has something to do with their relationship ending. Has she gone back to Ireland?) Arya, Sansa, and Ygritte were close. He wonders briefly how Arya feels, then tells himself he shouldn’t care (he does anyway).

The next morning is dreary and grey, and with a groan he remembers that it’s Saturday. He normally liked going out, mostly because of Arya and all the crazy things they’d get up to when Renly, Robb, and Jon’s backs were turned, but now that he’s not with Arya, the trip has lost its’ luster. He doesn’t want to go, but Will is going because Sansa is going and he has to try to be a bro and at least attempt to get over Arya Stark. At least, that’s what Will tells Gendry while he shaves in the mirror that morning.

“Arya is—she’s like a free spirit, you know? Like Loras. You can’t just tie her down.”

“Loras is tied down to Renly,” Gendry grumbles as he rinses his razor out in the sink. “Arya is a free spirit, but it’s more complicated than that. I don’t know.” There’s a rumble of thunder outside and they both pause to look up at the ceiling. On cue, it starts leaking, pitter patting in the tub. Gendry groans. “I’m sick of the rain.”

“I don’t really know what’s going on there with Loras and Renly. Maybe we’ll be in-laws one day.” Will wriggles in eyebrows at Gendry, who laughs a little. “That’s not the point, though,” Will insists, sniffling as he wipes his nose with his handkerchief. “My point is that you can’t just mope around all day. It’s sad. You’re making me sad.”

“They’ll be there,” Gendry mumbles with a heavy sigh, rinsing the rest of the soap off his face. He wipes it down with a towel, looking at Will. “I just don’t want to be around them. It’s only been a week, and we were together for a year. She’s already moved on. I want to move on too, but I can’t if they’re there. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“You don’t know that,” he sighs, watching as Gendry sits on the bed and puts his boots on. 

“Loras said—”

“What does Loras know?” Will asks, shaking his head. “All he thinks about is your uncle.” Gendry scowls and Will sighs. “You can’t just give up. I mean, Sansa and Joffrey Baratheon are… I don’t know, actually. She doesn’t talk about him at all and if I ask she just avoids the question and—anyway, just because Sansa has that thing with… him, it doesn’t mean I’m just going to throw in the towel. I can still try, at least. What do I have to lose? What do you have to lose?” 

“That’s different. I never hit Arya. I mean, not like that. I’ve never taken advantage of her, not that I know of anyway. I love Arya, Will. I don’t think you love Sansa. You just like her and hate Joffrey.” He could mention the fact that Will also hates the fact that Sansa’s probably the most indecisive person on the planet, but that’ll just add more insult to injury.

Willas looks at Gendry and shakes his head. 

“Have it your way. You can’t spend this summer being miserable because you broke up with your girlfriend. Why not, you know, try to play her game too?”

“What?”

“I mean, okay, Arya’s supposedly with Trystane. So why don’t you get with someone here?”

“Like who?”

“Arianne? Um… Asha? Meera?”

Gendry pulls a sweater on and then a leather jacket. The pocket’s heavy, and when he reaches inside he finds one of the souvenirs Arya bought at the museum before everything ultimately hit the fan. She used to like to steal his clothes, sweaters and shirts and sweatpants and his jacket. He huffs and tosses it onto his pillow, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“Arianne Martell is crazy, in case you didn’t know. She’ll kill you over a cup of pudding. And she’s Trystane sister, so it’ll be weird. Asha Greyjoy? Really, Will? Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “She’d castrate me before she’d hold my hand. And who’s Meera?”

“Meera Reed? Her brother’s kind of a genius…?” Willas shakes his head. Jojen Reed is this gifted musical prodigy who can put composers and pianists twice his age to shame in about three minutes flat. His parents took Willas to see Jojen play a few days before camp. It was pretty wicked. Jojen’s at music camp in Oregon. “She’s kind of a sweetheart. I mean she’s really quiet and shy and really awkward but she’s kind of sweet. Sometimes.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Gendry—”

“I don’t want to be with anyone but Arya.” Will sighs heavily as Gendry gets up and stretches. “Ready to rumble?”

“Yeah.” He grabs his wallet, books, pills (Gendry doesn’t ask because Arya told him that he’s ill and didn’t elaborate and the one time he did ask Will got uncharacteristically somber and morose and so Gendry just dropped it, though he still is pretty curious about the pink and blue pills), and handkerchiefs and smiles a little grimly before walking out.

It’s pouring, so by the time they make it to the mess hall for breakfast, they’re soaked to the skin.

Melisandre, his uncle’s secretary (and, rumor has it, his mistress), stands with a scowl on her face, wet hair dripping as she shivers and holds a clipboard to her chest. A white megaphone is in her other hand, pale with long red fingernails. All the red kind of really freaks him out, but if you look past all that she’s not really that bad. Will goes to Sansa, like a moth drawn to a flame, and Gendry keeps his distance, watching from the corner of his eye as their fingers brush together and she smiles that bright Tully smile at him. 

(Arya’s smile is crooked and there’s the tiniest gap in her front teeth because she thinks no one will take her seriously with braces in her mouth and she has freckles and a small black birthmark in the fold of her cheek and Gendry’s heart squeezes violently in his chest when he thinks about it.) 

Arya and Trystane are huddled at a table with Jeyne (Poole, not Robb’s Jeyne, Jeyne Westerling) and Arianne, and she’s laughing at something and Gendry can’t help but notice the way his fingers play with her knobby knees. She’s most ticklish in the crook of her knees and neck. Their eyes meet across the room, silver and blue and he wants to say something, anything, but before he can Theon Greyjoy clamps a hand on his shoulder and asks him if he’s seen his sister, Asha.

“No,” he replies, deflated as Arya turns and leans slightly into Trystane. “I’m sorry.”

Melisandre clears her throat loudly into the megaphone and everyone quickly clamps up. She scares everyone, but Gendry doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s all the red. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s like his uncle’s shadow or doesn’t understand the concept of personal space.

“Attention! Mr. Baratheon has decided that the weather is too severe to risk a trip into the city today, so—” There’s a collective groan that she quickly puts an end to, narrowing her eyes at them. “I haven’t finished. Now as I was saying, Mr. Baratheon does not wish to have you all travel into the city because of how poor the weather is today. So instead, we are having a mixer in this very hall this evening. Please dress appropriately for the weather conditions and like the refined young men and women we all know you are. That means no tight clothing and no crop tops or wife beaters or any sort of immodest clothing. It begins at 7 P.M. and the curfew has been extended to 11 P.M. due to the fact that it is Saturday. Mr. Baratheon has decided to trust all of you not to take advantage of the extended curfew. However, anyone found lurking about the grounds after 11: 30 P.M. will be dealt with harshly and both the mixers and trips to the city will be canceled until further notice. Carry on.”

The air buzzes with talk of this mixer, and already Gendry plans on not going. He has to catch up on his comics anyway and it’s not like he really wants to be around people today. He eats breakfast with Jon and swallows the bile in his throat when he sees Arya steal Trystane’s waffles. They’re the first to leave. Gendry forces himself to wait five minutes before he leaves to minimize the chance of running into them. Of course, nothing works out in Gendry’s life and of course he runs into not just Arya but Arya and Trystane. Together. Kissing. Well it’s not so much as running into as just kind of walking by Trystane’s cabin because it’s on the way to his and seeing them on the steps.

Arya looks at him and he just starts walking backwards and closes his eyes because he doesn’t want to see and he doesn’t care (yes he does).

“Gendry!” she exclaims and he slips and falls onto his hands. "Wait!" He slips again as he tries picking himself up and finally does and he’s running and she keeps yelling his name and he doesn’t know why and god damn it he has mud all over himself and thank goodness the cabin’s here finally and with a sigh he slams the door behind himself, chest heaving. 

“Gendry?” Will is sitting on the bed and Sansa is at the desk, both looking at him with questioning eyes and small frowns. 

“Are you okay?” Sansa asks, knitting her eyebrows the way Arya does… or used to, anyway.

“I’m fine,” he spits. He grabs some dry clothes from his suitcase on the floor—didn’t think it was really worth it if he was leaving in a couple of weeks (sort of) anyway. 

“Gendry—”

“I’m fine Will,” he insists, slinking into the bathroom. He leans against the door and tries to steady his breathing and clear his head like Syrio taught him before Arya, before Highgarden, before this. He thinks of the ocean, of the tide, of the sun on his face, of warm sand, taking deep, even breaths. But the skies turn the stormy grey of her eyes and the tide is the sound of her breaths when she’s asleep and the sun becomes her smile and he can’t breathe. 

He can’t stop seeing them kiss.

It takes him about five long minutes to relax and feel like he won’t fall apart if he moves, and with a heavy sigh he peels off his wet clothes and changes into his dry ones. He hangs them to dry on the towel rack and walks back into the room. He doesn’t know why he’s so hung up over Arya. Maybe it’s because they were together for a really long time and even if she kind of was his best friend. 

Will and Sansa are staring at him and he avoids their inquisitive looks as he hunkers down on his bed with his comics and hides behind an old Batman comic Uncle Renly sent him last summer. He’s read it at least five times but he doesn’t even care, just as long as he can avoid eye contact with them.

“Gendry—”

“I’m busy.” 

“Are you okay?” Sansa asks softly.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine—”

“Well, I am, okay, so just drop it,” he snaps, sullen and sulking behind his comic. Willas and Sansa exchange a look. 

He spends the whole day brooding and practically exhausts his supply of comics. 

At some point, Will and his paramour leave, but Gendry doesn’t know when they left. He doesn’t leave for lunch (he fell asleep and didn’t wake up until almost five in the afternoon), but he does find a tray from Robb on the porch when he gets out of bed to see if the rain has cleared. He eats the cold turkey sandwich and washes it down with a bottle of water, but it doesn’t settle very well. Gendry feels like he’s going to be sick, so he gets up and dons another jacket that smells like Arya—why does everything he own smell like her—and goes outside for some fresh air. It’s still raining, but at least it’s not as bad as it was before. 

He thinks that maybe he can talk to Jon about it, about Arya and everything else, because if there’s anyone who understands what it’s like to be Gendry, it’s Jon Snow, who spent most of his young life being whispered and talked about behind closed doors.

The cabin is quiet, which isn’t really surprising because the counselors are supposed to be decorating with Melisandre. Jon isn’t really the decorating type, so he expects to find him at the desk or in the kitchen or something. Oddly enough, he doesn’t, so he assumes Jon’s in his room. He goes upstairs and Daenerys Targaryen, of all people, run past him, crying and almost shoves him down the stairs.

He’s still staring after her when Jon fumbles out of the room, calling after her.

“Dany!” He stands at the top of the staircase and her only reply is the slamming of the screen door. Jon sighs and rubs his face before noting that Gendry’s there. “Hey.”

“What just happened?”

“It’s complicated,” he says, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand why all the Starks say that. When he asks Robb why Arya doesn’t talk about Bran, his reply is, “It’s complicated.” When he asks Sansa about Joffrey, her airy response is, “It’s complicated.” When Arya suddenly cancelled her plans to come over for Christmas dinner last winter, her only explanation was, “It’s complicated.” (He later learned that Bran got sick and the Stark family spent a somber holiday in the children’s ward at a private hospital. But still. She could have told him. It wasn’t like he was going to flip out.) “What’s up?”

He explains it from the beginning—how he asked Arya countless numbers of times to just tell her parents because he didn’t understand why she wouldn’t and how they fought over it and how relieved he was when he thought she finally told them and how she lied and told them she was seeing Trystane Martell instead and how they broke up because it was really kind of ridiculous and how he feels like falling to pieces. They end up in the kitchen, sitting across from each other at the small table.

“I don’t know what to do. I think she really is dating Trystane now?” He scratches at the back of his head. “I don’t know.”

“She’s not,” Jon said simply, shaking his head. “They’ve been friends for a long time. That doesn’t mean they’re dating.”

“I saw them kissing. Like with tongue.” He bites at his thumbnail, restless. “I don’t know Jon… seems pretty legit to me.”

“You did this to yourself,” Jon sighs, shaking his head. “Trystane’s had a crush on Arya for the longest time. He started seeing Myrcella because you asked Arya out before he could. They’re pretty close, in case you haven’t noticed. You break up with Arya, and he’s her best friend, so of course she’s going to go to him with for comfort. And he’s a boy, Gendry. Of course he’s going to take the opportunity to try his luck. Maybe he’s a rebound.”

“You think so?”

“Maybe Arya’s trying to get your attention,” Jon points out.

“I don’t think she cares about me anymore.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You can’t talk to me about being ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.” Jon raises an eyebrow. “The reason why your girlfriend broke up with you and basically fled the country ran out of your room when I got here and you’re telling me I’m ridiculous? Really, Jon? If anyone here is ridiculous, it’s you. I’d be trying to get my girl back—”

“It’s—how do you even—never mind.” He shakes his head. “This isn’t about me. This is about you and Arya. Why don’t you take your own advice and try to get her back?”

“And I’m supposed to compete against Trystane Martell how exactly?” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s not worth it—”

“If you really loved her, you’d try. You wouldn’t just give up. Ygritte and I—what happened there is more complicated than what everyone thinks it is, and I can’t just fix it as easily as you might think I can. You can still fix things with Arya though. Are you going to the mixer thing?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but maybe I will. I don’t know yet.”

“You should. It’ll be good for you. Maybe you’ll meet someone.” He wriggled his eyebrows and grinned and Gendry laughed, shaking his head.

“You’re not helping.”

At six, Gendry feels okay. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Arya could tell him to go to hell, and that’s about it. Maybe Trystane will try to get involved too, but he’s irrelevant and he’s not going to let himself get riled up because of Arya’s new plaything. He takes a shower and gets dressed.

Quarter after six, he sits on the bed and convinces himself that it’ll be fine.

At six thirty, he feels like throwing up.

Quarter to seven, he paces and ignores Will’s claims that everything will be alright.

Ten to seven, Will has to convince him that he doesn’t look like an idiot in the suit he borrowed from him (because Gendry didn’t think one needed a suit for summer camp and Will always had some suits on hand because reasons). 

At seven, on the way to the mess hall with Will, he dry heaves three or four times.

“I don’t think I can do it, man, I—” He wipes his face with clammy hands. “This was a bad idea. Maybe I should just not—”

“I need a wingman,” Will says sternly, hands on his shoulders. “And you’re that wingman, Gendry. You need to suck it up and walk in there and pretend you’re okay for four hours and make Arya feel really horrible about everything while at the same time helping me not screw up with Sansa, because that’s what wingmen do.”

He sighs deeply. Will gives him a halfhearted pat on the cheek.

“You’ll be fine. If you really feel sick, go see Shae. She’ll give you some ice cream and let you lay down.”

“Fine.”

“If you’re really that miserable, just give it an hour and then you can go sulk with your comics.”

“One hour?”

“One measly little hour,” Will promises.

“Okay.” He huffs and sighs and takes deep breathes and does everything he can to make himself relax. But he can’t, and he knows he can’t, but he’ll try anyway. The mess hall looks nice, for once. The tables are against the walls and decorated with plastic table covers and covered with punch bowls and hors d’oeuvres and little finger foods. There’s a DJ and he doesn’t completely suck, which is kind of awesome. The lights are out but there are strobe lights and the occasional blue or red or yellow light here and there. The counselors are chaperones, but they’re pretty inconspicuous. Is that woman with Robb the Jeyne? Will confirms it as they stand at the punch bowl. He drinks from the glass and turns, looking around. Sansa and Arya are with Trystane, Myrcella and Margaery. Arya never wore skirts, much less dresses, but there she is, in a dress Sansa probably stuffed her into kicking and screaming, gold with black flowers. She’s rubbing her arms and twisting her hair—a nervous habit—and Trystane puts his coat over her shoulders and Gendry’s going to be sick. Again.

“Easy,” Will coaxes, rubbing his back with an easy smile. “Let’s get some food in you.”

“Yeah,” he says absently, turning away from her. “Let’s do that.”

They sit with Garlan and Loras, and while their company amuses him, he still finds himself mildly aware of everything Arya does.

Trystane’s dancing with her and Garlan’s telling a joke and Gendry forces himself to laugh at the punch line even though it wasn’t that funny. He’s going to be sick.

Four finger sandwiches later, Sansa comes over and drags Will away to dance with her. Gendry grins at Will and throws him a thumbs up. Will has two left feet but Sansa just smiles and put his hand on her hip and sways lightly with him. It seems his work here is done.

Well, that was easy. He loosens his tie and makes his way to the restroom, checking his phone. He can leave in ten minutes. He splashes his face with cold water and rolls his neck around. He fixes his hair and sighs, shutting off the faucet. He then exits the bathroom and walks around the edges of the dancefloor, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Somehow Arianne Martell grabs hold of him and drags him to the dance floor.

“I really can’t dance, I—”

“Shut up,” she says softly, resting her head on his shoulder as she plays with his hair. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“What?”

“Arya misses you and I know you miss her because you’re depressingly pathetic. Trystane likes Arya, and I know she likes him, but she doesn’t like him the way she likes you.” She sighs, leading them towards the couple in question. Arya’s looking at him with that glassy look she gets when she’s upset, but turns away when he kisses her cheek. “So if I can just get you guys alone for like, three minutes, I think the problem will be solved. Myrcella misses Trystane. And to be honest, I think they’re good for each other. Arya’s too strong for him.”

“Yeah?” He laughs mirthlessly, spinning Arianne. “I’m happy someone thinks so. How is this going to work?”

“Simple. In about thirty seconds, a line dance is going to start. Everyone’s going to join in. When they do, I’ll make sure you’re standing next to Arya. You’ll slip away and no one will be any the wiser. You can thank me in cigarettes.”

“I don’t—”

“Your uncle Renly has a carton of unopened menthols in his upper left hand drawer in his desk.”

“How do you—”

“Loras.”

Arianne smiles brightly at him, wriggling her eyebrows.

“Alright everybody!” the DJ exclaimed, cutting the song that was playing. He then announced, much like Arianne said he would, a line dance. And like Arianne promised, Arya and Gendry were side by side, in the back no less, so it really wasn’t that difficult to leave.

It was raining outside.

Again.

“You clean up nice,” he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You think so?” He nods and she blushes, laughing. “This was Arianne’s idea. I think it makes me look frumpy.”

“I think you look beautiful. You always do.”

“You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” she says softly, glancing at him. “Not now. Not after everything.”

“I can’t help myself. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess.”

“I’m sorry. About everything, I mean. My mom’s really vicious and if she knew about us—if she found out that I was with Gendry Waters, the disgraced mayor’s son, she’d throw a fit. She’d send me to Boston to live with my aunt Lysa and her stupid son Robin and her creepy old husband Jon and I’d never see you again. I’d never see Sansa or Bran or Rickon or Robb or Jon or anyone ever again. And she’d make your life a living hell too. And my dad, Gendry. My dad—I mean he likes you—he likes everyone—but if he found out about us, about Syrio and his place and everything, about what we’ve done, about how many sleepovers at my friend Georgia’s house were actually at yours and—” She shakes her head. “It would have gotten so ugly. And I could deal with all of that, you know? I could go to Boston and my dad could ground me until I’m, like, thirty, but I didn’t want to lose you. But I did anyway.” She shrugs, her bony shoulders spotted with freckles. “I’m sorry if I hurt you and if I made you think that I didn’t care about you because I do. I really do and—”

“What about Trystane?”

“Trys—Trys and me go way back. And when you broke up with me, I didn’t know what to do and I was so sad and he was there for me and he made me feel better. I mean, he helped me forget, for a little while anyway.”

They stand in a quiet silence.

“I don’t—I don’t think you’ll take me back and I’m not asking you to because I know you need time, but I’d like it if you didn’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve been acting like it lately.”

“I don’t know what to say to you anymore.” He looks up from the ground and meets her stare, glassy and deep and he wants to kiss her and be done with all of this, but it’s not that easy. “You keep thinking that I care about what people think about me. And you keep trying to fulfill everyone’s expectations of you and you’re not happy. I can tell. But I can’t make your decisions for you. If you’re not happy, why do any of this? Why do this thing with Trystane? Why? Why not tell your parents about us if I make you happy? If you love me as much as you claim to? Why?”

“Gendry, please don’t—you don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand. Right, no, yeah, I don’t understand because I don’t come from money and my mother isn’t vying for a Nobel Peace Prize and my dad isn’t all high and mighty anymore and my mother’s a drunk slut, right? You’re right, Arya. Of course I don’t understand. How could I ever understand the complexities of the life of Arya Stark? How dare I presume to know anything about the girl who doesn’t want anyone to know anything about her? How could I—” She shoves him then, hard and angry and with her mouth set in a line.

“Shut up, Gendry. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I don’t. What do I know? I’m just dopey Gendry Waters,” he mocks, rolling his eyes. She shoves him again, almost throwing him in the mud. She tries to slap him next, but he grabs her hand before she does. She anticipates this, of course, so she shoves the heel of her other hand into his other shoulder and makes him fall. He takes her down with him, but she rolls so that he lands on his back with a dull thud. He groans and she pounds his chest, sniffling and hiccupping.

They roll around in the mud for a while. He doesn’t hit Arya—can’t—and instead tries to keep her from hitting him.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” she cries as he grabs her wrists, sitting up.

“Why?” He moves her hair out of her face and she sniffles again. She’s got mud all over Arianne’s pretty dress and in her hair and smudged on her cheeks. He wipes some of it affectionately and lets go. She hits him again, halfhearted as she slumps and sighs.

“Because you’re a stupid, stupid boy and you keep making me love you and miss you and want you back.” She leans her forehead against his, brushing their noses together. “Stupid boy.”

“Stupid girl,” he mumbles as he kisses her, smiling. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have maybe sort of forgotten about this. SORRY. I'M REALLY SORRY. 
> 
> *cowers and waits for violent backlash*


	10. Daenerys & Ygritte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's pathetically in love, or at least, they think they are. Robb and Jeyne, Sansa and that weird Willas kid, and now Arya and Gendry. It's pathetic. How do they even know what love is? It's not like what she has with Jon. That's real, and she's going to make him see that, one way or another. Meanwhile, overseas, Ygritte tries to move on and forget that pale brooding boy she left behind.

Love, Dany muses as she sips the iced tea that’s laced with some liquor she smuggled in with her luggage, is probably the most beautifully sickening thing she’s ever seen in her entire life. Eddard Stark kisses his wife’s cheek, Mace and whatever her name is are gloating over the pride and joy of Bel Air, their children, and even Stannis and his wife are attempting at exchanging some sort of affection for Shireen’s sake. She wants to vomit. She's disgusted with herself because she finds herself want that, wanting to be kissed and held and loved. It's annoying, because she's supposed to be strong and brave and fearless. Fearless girls don't turn into mush at the thought of kissing or holding or being with someone.

America is making her really soft.

It’s Sunday. Sunday means that it’s family day. (Ew.) While the children of the rich and famous of the greater Los Angeles area play catch-up with their parents and siblings, Dany’s stuck with the fat pasty man she’s known as a guardian for most of her natural life and his god awful friends. And Viserys, of course. Who could forget him?

Dany keeps her head up high, ignoring the eyes boring into her back as she turns to Viserys. Illyrio is as fat and people-pleasing as ever, laughing heartily at some stupid joke Viserys made that wasn’t even funny, just because they're resting all these false hopes on him and want to get in his good graces. (Because somehow Los Angeles is going to put a crackpot like her brother in a position of power without any hesitation.) She eats her food slowly, trying to make it last, trying not to look up and shoot dirty looks back at everyone. She doesn’t understand why everyone’s so hostile today—she doesn’t talk to any of the girls here (she gave up on that after the first week) or do anything to them, so what gives? 

The only person she talks to here is Jon Snow.

Dany suffocates the dreamy sigh that threatens to leave her with a forkful of steak, keeping her eyes on her plate. (He's the one who's really making her soft.) Viserys laughs with Illyrio’s cronies, and Dany struggles to keep acting like nothing’s wrong despite the fact that everything is very, very wrong indeed. She doesn’t know when it got so complicated. When she looks up, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, Arianne Martell is narrowing her eyes at her, draining a glass of water. Dany looks down, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t even talk to Arianne.

Jon Snow is the only one who understands.

He gets her, the sense of being alone in a crowded room, the black sheep in a flock of bright white lambs, the stinging disappointment of rejection, all of it. When she tries to explain her feelings to Viserys, he tells her to suck it up and be strong because she has the “blood of the dragon” in her veins or something like that. He has illusions of grandeur and wants to become mayor once he’s of age to “carry the Targaryen torch”. He doesn’t understand that the torch was put out when their father and mother died. Illyrio is too busy stuffing his face to notice how friendless she truly is.

Daenerys isn’t one for being alone. It's different overseas, in Europe and South America and Africa and all sorts of unique places. (Illyrio moves them around on the off chance that the people who killed her parents are trying to kill her and her brother too, though she honestly doubts it.) No one really cares about her family there and they indulge her and all her whims. 

She feels like a queen overseas, which is why being 'home' makes her feel out of place.

Everyone here knows about her parents, about her father—her guard, Barristian Selmy, had to sit her down one day and explain to her that Viserys had filled her head with lies, and that while her mother had been rather charming and sweet, her father was crazy and that most people naturally feared the Targaryens because they were just so intense and had an air of craziness about them—about her brother Rhaegar and the baby and everything else and thought that her infamy, or rather, that of the family she barely knew, was infectious and weren’t about to throw away their carefully cultivated fame and popularity for some silly little girl. 

She hates them all.

Dany seeks Jon’s advice and company because her brother just rants and rambles about how he’ll get back at all those who snubbed and rejected them—him, mostly, he doesn’t care about what happens to Dany and she’s known this for a long, long time—and she just prefers the company of someone who’s not foaming at the mouth with ideas of revenge and retaliation.

Dany’s never had very many friends. She tried to make friends, when she was younger, before she understood who her parents were and why her father had been nicknamed ‘the Mad King’, but it never worked out very well. Most parents didn’t want their children to be around that ‘crazy Targaryen girl’ and those who stuck around weren’t the kind of people Illyrio wanted her around. Her circle was limited to Viserys, but he was too busy being groomed for politics by Illyrio and his acquaintances to pay his younger sister any mind.

It’s been a lonely life.

And then she meets Jon. 

He doesn’t care about her parents—offers quiet sympathies with a comforting smile—or her brother—tells her that it’s okay because everyone hates him as much as she does—or anything else that keeps others away. It’s nice. Until, of course, his girlfriend gets in the way and ruins it. Ygritte Frost is pretty, and his age, and has more of a shot with him than Dany could ever hope to—because, let’s face it, Jon Snow is a nice hunk of man meat and Daenerys knows that she’s neither ugly nor excessively beautiful, and she’s only human after all, but Ygritte is his age and they’ve been together longer than he’s been friends with Dany. Ygritte is jealous—it doesn’t matter how many times she denies it, she totally is—of their friendship and tells Jon to cut it out.

Dany just wants to feel close to someone for once. That’s all—she just wants someone to hold her and look at her like she’s worth something more than her last name, like she’s just Dany and not Daenerys Targaryen. Jon does that, and she’ll be damned if she lets some envious nurse take that away from her.

Sometimes, she toys with the idea that her interest is not entirely one sided. Maybe he likes her too. Maybe this is a mutual thing. She wants to keep him close, but sometimes fears that she’s clinging too much, which only makes her cling further in an attempt to keep him from slipping away. She’s acutely aware of things he does, picks out his laugh when everyone else laughs, feels his eyes on her back when she leaves the room. Of course, she can’t say anything about it because it’d be awkward and he doesn’t like her anyway. He worries about her, and there’s a huge difference between worrying about a girl six years your junior and wanting her in a romantic sort of way.

That changes on a lonely afternoon when she brings him some cake that she’s made with Lyanna and Robert and starts talking to him about something she can’t for the life of her remember because the memory’s overshadowed by the kiss that threatens to tear her apart.

After that, it didn’t get any better.

Dany doesn’t regret any of it because she really likes him—maybe she even loves him, who knows—and he likes her too. Or at least he likes messing around with her, which is really kind of the same thing.

It’s almost perfect.

Almost.

And then Ygritte finds out and ruins everything. He keeps saying that no, they can’t, no, they shouldn’t, Dany stop, Dany don’t—Christ, Dany—all because she says she caught them kissing. 

“She’s just jealous,” Dany says, wrapping herself around his back. She plays with his hair and he sighs heavily.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

“Because you don’t want to or because you don’t want her to find out?”

For all his protests, he was pretty weak and his protests usually died out within the first five minutes, so they usually went ignored. Dany thinks that she’s finally got someone that she can trust and depend on and she doesn’t need anyone but him and everything’s all fine and well… until Ygritte Frost decides that she just can’t take Jon Snow anymore and up and leaves for Ireland.

Drama queen.

When she first hears the news, she’s elated. Now she doesn’t have to fight for his attention because the annoying wretch is an ocean away. Shireen just smiles and twirls her hair at Dany’s excitement. (She was such an innocent and simple minded girl that she usually got excited about almost anything.) It really was kind of exciting, when she thought about it—he was an older guy and was (sort of) interested in her and just broke up with his girlfriend, which meant that he’d be looking for comfort.

Hopefully from Dany.

When Dany finally catches him alone, he’s distant and quiet and doesn’t want to talk. She has the sinking suspicion that maybe her elation at the end of his relationship with Ygritte was ill timed.

“Jon?” He looks at her then down at his folded hands, gnawing on his lip. She shuts the door and leans against it, giving him the look that usually had him panting like a dog in heat in about ten seconds flat. He doesn’t even look up, so she clears her throat and stuffs her hands in her pockets. 

“Ygritte left.”

“I heard,” she says sympathetically, looking at him from underneath her eyelashes. She’s so used to getting her way with the opposite sex—if there’s anything her travels have taught her, it’s how to get her way by any means necessary. And she’ll be damned if she doesn’t have her way with Jon Snow because he’s hung up on his stupid girlfriend.

So far it’s been mostly innocent, the occasional kiss or casual grope here or there that he usually stops because he has a sense of honor or something stupidly noble or something like that. (“I feel like I’m defiling you.”) But there could be more—there should be more—and now that Ygritte is finally gone, maybe she’ll get her way.

No, not maybe. She will, because she’s Daenerys Targaryen and she’s going to get what she wants and she’s going to get it right now.

Once, when she was younger, Viserys told her that he remembers how when she was born, it rained and rained for days, and he called her little Stormborn because of it. “You’re Daenerys Stormborn,” he said seriously, cupping her face in his hands, “and promise me you’ll always take what is yours. With fire and blood you’ll take it, if need be.”

She has never put faith in anything that leaves Viserys’ mouth, but this may very well be the first time she does.

Jon shoots her a look and Dany smiles coyly at him, slinking slowly towards the bed where he’s sitting. She sits next to him and puts a careful hand on his leg, leaning into him. He picks up her hand and lets it fall onto the bed, upset.

“She left because of you,” he says bitingly, accusation dripping off every word. 

“What did I do?” Dany looks him with wide eyes, wondering why he hasn’t fallen prey to her smiles and soft touches just yet. Maybe she should set him up with Renly. Heaven knows that Loras Tyrell has been getting on her nerves lately and needs to be knocked down a few pegs. He stands in front of her, shaking his head as he rolls his eyes.

“What did you do? Are we really having this conversation? You’ve been throwing yourself at me and—”

“Throwing myself? How dare you—”

“How dare I? How dare you? You’re the one who—”

“Who what? It takes two, Jon Snow! Not one, but two! You wanted this just as much as I did. Did seem like I forced myself on you a couple nights ago, did it? I guess I must have really hurt you when we—”

“Wanted what? We didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. You kissed me and threw yourself at me and—” She slaps his cheek harshly, almost shaking. She hasn’t been this mad in a long, long time, mostly because things tend to get ugly when she gets mad.

Like now, for example.

“Daenerys!”

“It’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair? This is your fault, Dany, and you’re going to fix this right now. You’re going to call Ygritte and—”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“I’m not calling her. It’s not my fault that you’re so pathetic that you’re hung up on some stupid girl who didn’t even love you.” She covers her mouth, eyes wide as she realizes what she’s just said.

“Get out.”

“Jon, wait, I—”

“Get out,” he says again, stone-faced as he points to the door. “I don’t need this right now.”

“Jon—”

“What part of get out didn’t you get?”

Angrily, she storms out, making sure to slam the door and wake up Cersei, who would undoubtedly think it was Jon and proceed to chew his ear off about how selfishly inconsiderate he is of her needs. Dany doesn’t take kindly to not having her way. 

She barrels into her cabin, furious. She slams the door behind her. She takes off her bangles and tosses them carelessly on the bed. Shireen, sweet and infuriating delicate Shireen, is lying on the carpet, reading a magazine as she raises her head and spares Dany a glance before going back to her article about how to dye one’s hair at home.

Dany slams the bathroom door, fuming. She braces herself against the sink, looking up into the mirror.

There will be blood, and Jon Snow will rue the day he crossed Daenerys Targaryen.

I will take what is mine with fire and blood.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Spain, Ygritte Frost was curling up on the couch with her dog. She should be in Dublin. She’s supposed to be sitting in front of the telly with her blankets and tea and biscuits and her mum’s supposed to be making her soup and doing her laundry and nagging her about getting out more. She’s supposed to be going to the pub and get picked up by boys whose names she won’t remember while she sneaks out of their flats before the morning light and cursing at all the rain.

Here’s the problem.

When the plane made a stop in New York City due to ‘mechanical difficulties’, she went to the ticket counter and changed her destination to Madrid. It only cost a hundred dollars or so and she had quite the little nest egg. (She was planning to surprise Jon with a trip to Seattle for his birthday but that plan obviously failed so she had quite a bit of money on her to do as she pleased when she pleased because she was a free woman. For now, anyway.)

Spain is nice, warm and dry and it’s only rained once in the whole two weeks she’s been here. She likes it. The people are nice and the food is really spicy and flavorful and she doesn’t understand what anyone says but it’s okay because she likes hearing them speak. It's pretty, even if she doesn't really know what any of it means. 

Ygritte is staying at this villa of sorts, an inn that promises anonymity and enough liquor to let her sleep at night. They keep the press out - not like there's that much, but still. No one knows her here. Or at least she thought no one did.

Quentyn Martell is here too. He’s a nice boy. 

She met him once and wonders if he’s related to Trystane and Arianne. (Robb was throwing a party and he was invited, along with Ygritte and Jon. He seemed like a nice guy, even if he wasn't very talkative.) She doesn’t see it, though. Quentyn is shy and quiet and stutters and blushes under her glances and mumbles something about how smoking kills whenever she lights a cigarette. 

She likes him.

Not nearly as much as she likes Jon, but maybe he can be a rebound or something.

Maybe.

The dog was kind of a gift from Quentyn. Okay, not really. A couple of days ago, when she first came here—maybe she’ll never leave—she stepped out on the town with Quentyn, who was here because he came into some money and was traveling and seeing the world. They’re walking downtown and it’s nice, there’s music and the smell of something wonderful and there are people everywhere, everywhere, it’s like L.A. but no one’s in her face and snap, snap, snapping away and Quentyn’s accent is light and free and his hand on the small of her back when the cross the street is like a comforting weight. She feels comfortable for the first time in a very long time.

“S-So maybe we s-should get some dinner or something, if you’re hungry—”

“Hungry?” She raises an eyebrow and spins away from him, walking backwards into the street because she feels lively and playful and light and she knows it won’t last, but, whatever - for now she’ll take this feeling and run, run, run—

“Careful!” Quentyn exclaims, and is pulling her across the street with a soft hand, frowning at her. Cars are honking and beeping and he runs back into the street and comes back with a small black dog who wags a pink tongue them playfully. 

They name the dog Coco.

She likes Quentyn. Likes his smile and his hair and his freckles and his hands and everything else, and it’s not hard to tell that he likes her too. She wants to want him, wants to want to kiss him and be with him and wake up with him, but she can’t. She doesn’t know why. She’d call Val and ask her for advice and maybe a pep talk, but Val’d just tell her to come back and kill Jon and Dany.

She doesn’t think that’d go down very well.

One balmy night, a Tuesday, they break out the wine and he asks her why.

Just why but she knows what he means, and that little three little word makes her intestines tie up in a pretty big knot.

“We could have something wonderful, you and I.”

Quentyn knows about Jon and Dany—who doesn’t know, by this point?—but this is the first time he’s ever brought it up. She doesn’t know how she feels about it yet.

“I know.”

Ygritte swirls the wine and looks at him over her glass, contemplative and quiet as she takes him, brooding from the window seat. He's not Jon - not as tall and his hair really isn't as curly and he has freckles where Jon's skin is nice and smooth, a little skinnier and his eyelashes are longer. It makes her sad.

“I know you want me,” she says after a beat, glancing up at his light brown eyes. It really isn't that hard to tell.

“I know you know I want you and I know you know I know you want me.” Quentyn quirks an eyebrow and laughs under his breath, almost draining his glass.

The Spanish are a hot-blooded and passionate people, and Ygritte can see that underneath all of Quentyn’s stutters and soft smiles. It's always the quiet nice ones. (Like Jon, that stupid godforsaken bastard.) Carmen’s playing on the record player and the lights are dimmed and there’s a nice breeze coming from the window. He smells nice, so like and unlike Jon that she has to focus on the small flowers on her bracelet to not burst into tears. Quentyn’s been planning this. She can tell.

The wine is deep red and bitter but somewhat sweet at the same time, so it doesn’t take long before she’s refilling her glass and standing behind him. He turns around and rubs her arm.

“We can do it, I think. Just travel aimlessly without a care in the world.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere.”

“And what would we see?”

“Things.” He tucks her hair behind her ear. “We could go to Athens and lose ourselves in the ruins. Get high in Amsterdam. Fight in a gondola in Venice. Visit Notre Dame.” His mouth is near her ear and she almost shivers but refrains. She has to be careful. She left Jon because he obviously cheated on her and that meant they weren’t together anymore, right? So she could see other people. Jon already was. She leans her head on his shoulder and they sway. He holds their hands to his chest and she wonders when he took her glass away.

Sneaky, sneaky boy.

Why couldn't she do the same thing? Why couldn't she just go and do whatever she wanted? Wasn't that why she left California in the first place?

“And what would we do?”

“Everything. We’d get lost. We’d find things. Little things. Big things. We’d get away from everyone and live in our own little world. Maybe we’ll even fall in love.”

“Fall in love?”

“Or something like that,” he acquiesces with a simple smile. 

“I don’t know, Quentyn. I mean, it seems like… like we’re running away.”

“Why is this different? You ran away.” He frowns. “I’m trying to understand you, but I can’t. You're so complicated.”

“Ran away?” she asks, looking up at him. “When have I ever run away from anything?”

“You do. You ran away from Jon—”

“I didn’t run away, okay? He—he wanted someone else and I left because I didn’t want to hold him back—”

“Does that help you sleep at night, Ygritte? Why didn’t you stay and fight? Why didn’t you try? I don’t see you as the giving up type.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do. I know you’re scared and act like you’re not because god forbid anyone know you have feelings and are a normal human being like the rest of us. I know you don’t want to try because you don’t think it’s worth it, but if you loved him, you would try. You’d go back and you’d fight. You’d fight for love, if you loved him. You’d demand an explanation—”

“Explanation? He slept with some stupid girl and—”

“Slept with her? Really? Do we know that? Does anyone know that?”

“I know that. I know. I saw them.”

“What? You saw them having sex?” Quentyn raises an eyebrow, setting down his wine glass.

“No, but—”

“But what?” Quentyn shakes his head. “No one’s asked him to defend himself. No one lets him.” He shrugs. “Maybe he did, but I doubt it. I grew up with Jon and Robb. Neither of them would do something like that.”

“Jon obviously did and you don’t know him as well as you think you do. You don’t know anyone as well as you think you do. You don’t know anything about him or me or us and—”

“Oh, but I do know you. I know that you’re a scared little girl, Ygritte.”

That’s when she throws her drink in his face and tells him to get the hell out and that she doesn't want to see him for a very long time.

Ygritte keeps Coco, though. 

She wakes up early the next morning and calls her mum—“Sorry, got kind of distracted, but I’m going back to Los Angeles. There’s some unfinished business.” She’s stuffed her hair into her hat and wears a black blouse and leggings and her boots and some bracelets—she’s convinced everyone but Quentyn that she’s in mourning and has to, of course, play the part. She ties it together with the beads she bought during one of their inner-city trysts. 

Ygritte takes a taxi and keeps Coco in her bag—it’s not like there’s much in there anyway—and it’s nice, walking into the airport without anyone asking her any awkward questions. Coco gets one of those pet carrier things and is carted away with promises that they’ll be reunited after their plane lands.

She sleeps the whole way to America, is mildly drowsy when she lands in Chicago, chucks the beads back in her bag, and is greeted by flashes and questions when she reaches LAX.

Good ol’ US of A.

She nuzzles into Coco’s fur while they walk through the doors, glad for the sunglasses she’s taken to wearing here. The questions tonight are different and serious and she doesn’t understand—while in Spain she forced herself not to keep track on anything here at all, meaning hardly watching TV and shutting off her phone. She turns it on as she walks through the doors into the balmy evening and gets into a taxi.

Every inbox is full, but most of the messages are deleted because they’re from Jon and Val and everyone else that she expected to beg her to come home.

There’s one message from Stannis though, and that worries her.

“Ms. Frost, when you get this message, please call me back. There’s a bit of an emergency and we need your help. She—she did what?” Stannis sighs heavily. “Call me when you get this.”

The time stamp on it is from an hour ago. She tells the cabbie to take her to Val’s place, where she drops off Coco with Jarl. (Val’s at her kickboxing class.) Then she makes him drive her to Highgarden and throws some money at him before getting out of the car and runs away. She probably paid him for the trip twice over but whatever, she’s worried because of Willas, who’s in such a delicate state that she couldn’t believe she left in the first place. She bursts into the office, but Melisandre hurries her out and tells her to follow her to the infirmary.

“There’s been an incident,” she says lightly, glancing at her as she pulls some of her bright red hair behind her ear.

“What kind of incident?”

“It’s better if you just come and see.”

An ambulance rushes up the dirt road past them, roaring siren grating on her already frayed nerves. Shireen is sobbing and bloody—why is there so much blood on her hands?—and screaming bloody murder into Cersei’s shoulders on the porch. Jaime is trying to calm Viserys down but it’s really not working at all.

“What did you do to her?!” he screams at Jon, who looks just as lost and confused as she is. 

Everyone else is crowded around the cabin that paramedics are running to. Someone else is unloading a stretcher and Ygritte is trying to understand what’s going on but nothing makes sense until someone carries out Dany’s limp body, bloody and wet and Ygritte feels her heart constricting in her chest.

She runs past Melisandre and everyone, following as the load her onto the stretcher, taking her hand. She wants to kill her and hold her and tell her everything’s going to be okay and shake her and ask her why all at the same time. People are pressing in on all sides, and poor Dany is all pale and dazed, blonde hair sticking to her tear stained, sweaty cheeks.

Ygritte follows in the ambulance, taking her hand. Dany looks at her like she’s lost. Ygritte leans in when Dany makes a move with her hand for her to come closer. Daenerys smiles feebly and looks her in the eye as she says, “This is your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY AM SORRY OKAY GUYS GEEZ


	11. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe Brienne actually does have feelings - but don't tell anyone, especially not Jaime Lannister. And okay, maybe in her pursuit to convince Jaime she has no feelings, she may have sort of accidentally stabbed him or something. Maybe. But it was an accident. Sort of.

“Is everyone here?” Mr. Baratheon—Stannis—asks, looking out of place in a crisp black suit with a white shirt, black tie and shiny black shoes. He doesn’t look anything like Shireen, who’s a sweet, albeit mildly simple, girl. Brienne enjoys her company, and smiles fondly when she sees her sitting with Arianne and Trystane, half hiding her face behind her downy soft red hair. (She’s shy and insecure because of her eczema, patches of dry skin on her cheeks and neck and arms and everywhere else, and is whispered about relentlessly because of it. It’s not fair. She can’t help it. It's bad enough that she has to cover up with all this heat.) Arianne is her friend though, and lashes out violently at anyone who teases Shireen, whether it’s to her face or not. Brienne doesn’t miss Trystane’s eyes lingering on Arya’s back as she shuffles in with Gendry, nor does she miss Gendry’s sullen glare in his direction.

Oh, to be young and in love.

The beautiful thing about Highgarden—depending on how you really choose to see it—is that everyone is clustered in their tiny little bubbles and don't pay attention to those who don’t belong in their bubbles, like Brienne. She hasn’t any illusions. She knows she doesn’t belong, knows that since she’s known for her fighting rather than her chirping pretty little lines on a silver screen that she isn’t part of 'the bubble', but it’s okay because she doesn’t want to be a part of the bubble anyway. 

(It still hurts though. The looks. The snubs. The rejection. She swallows past all of it and consoles herself with the fact that she’s probably a better fighter than all of them and memorizing a script and having pretty, flowing hair won’t save you when a mugger or a rapist or whoever wants a piece of you.)

Since she’s not part of the bubble, she’s nobody. And being nobody is pretty interesting. Especially in Highgarden, where people are sloppy when they think they’re being stealthy and then sneak about like thieves in the night. 

The most interesting thing is what people do when they think no one can see them and what they’ll say and how their true selves quickly come out to play when they think that no one’s watching. Like with Daenerys and Jon? Brienne saw that one coming.

Daenerys wanted nothing more than Jon Snow, breathed, dreamed, sweated and exuded him and him only. Of course Dany could do whatever she wanted to deny it, but Brienne wasn’t stupid. Maybe Brienne wasn’t as pretty as the other girls, with her short blonde hair and freckled face and that small gap between her teeth and nonexistent chest, but what she lacked in looks she made up in brains. Jon wasn’t that into Dany. Maybe sometimes he had a moment of weakness (or five), but at the end of the day that man belonged to Ygritte Frost and Ygritte Frost only. That ended in disaster. Now she’s in a hospital downtown and the rest of the campers are congregated into the mess hall a little after lunch to have an ‘honest talk’ about yesterday’s events. 

Ygritte Frost walks in and sits to Brienne’s left, sparing her a look before looking up at Stannis. (Brienne likes to sit in the back corners of rooms so she can see everyone and everything, because she knows, better than anyone, what it’s like to be taken unawares and she’s sworn that it’ll never happen, never again, nope, not if she has anything to say about it.) Ygritte went to Spain (Brienne overheard Trystane talking to Arya about how his brother was with her and that she was okay) and came back with a somewhat golden glow to her usually eerily pale skin. She flips her hair over her shoulder and sighs, clasping her hands together. She’s fidgety. Is she okay? Does she feel guilty? Brienne can’t tell. Jon tries to sit next to her, but she glares at him until he scurries to sit with Robb and Renly at the other end of the aisle.

Brienne guesses they’re not getting back together any time soon.

Brienne is happy that Ygritte is back. She’s one of the few women here with a backbone. The girl campers are too busy trying to hook up with the boys (except for Shireen, innocent and pure and too shy to make eye contact with a boy much less make out with him in a dark corner). And Cersei is callous and rude and makes Brienne feel like crawling into a hole and dying, mostly because she looks down on her and tells her in not so many words that she would have been better off as a boy.

_“Leave her alone,” Jaime quips softly, shooting his twin a look. Brienne has a heart of stone—has had to develop one out of necessity after years of being teased and shoved away—but the muscle flutters in her chest, quick and warm, but it’s a flutter nonetheless, when he says that. She looks at Jaime and there’s a stirring somewhere deep inside of her, some place where the ruins of her childish ideals of romance and gentleness lie, crumbling slowly but surely, as he stares his sister down._

_Jaime Lannister is beautiful. Renly Baratheon—the reason she’s even at this godforsaken hellhole in the first place—is handsome, kind—but very much taken with Sansa’s best friend, Loras Tyrell, something that Brienne discovered when she accidentally stumbled over them in a stairwell in a museum a week or so after camp started. It’s okay. Renly is still a nice guy and someone nice to talk to (he’ll sit and listen and talk to anyone, it doesn’t matter who, and that’s what started this stupid infatuation in the first place) and it won’t change her opinion of him any—but a small part of her, that childish, foolish part, will pine over him regardless. Lately, most of her attentions are spent on Jaime. Jaime Lannister, with blonde hair and green eyes and soft skin and a bright smile that cuts her deep because it makes her feel like she’s something special (when she knows she’s not, not really, not like the rest of the girls here)._

_Jaime Lannister, loud and brash with everyone but her, quiet and soft spoken Jaime Lannister, a witty and charming boy trapped in the body of a man grown who has somehow, maybe without even trying, wormed his way into the stony, dark, damp cave Brienne called her heart._

_The cheeky bastard._

_In this moment, she doesn’t see him as a bastard or anything like that. Instead, she sees him as her hero, a figurative knight in shining armor (but if he were a knight, he’d be silver and white from head to toe, something as resplendent as he is) coming to her rescue. Does this make her a damsel in distress? Never, she’s vowed to herself, would she find herself in a position where she’d have to depend on a man to defend her (not again)._

_“Whatever,” Cersei grumbles, huffing as she leaves the kitchen before Brienne can stammer a response._

Brienne honestly misses what Stannis even talked about because she’s too busy rehashing memories of Jaime, and before she knows it, Cersei’s telling her that she’s a fat cow and should get down to the kitchens quickly. When they walk in, everyone else is already there—including Jaime (and really he shouldn’t wear those kinds of shirts around girls with feelings and what not, really it’s not fair) and, unfortunately, Robert.

Robert whistles at Cersei. Jaime shoots him a sharp look, chastising and fed up. Brienne says nothing and spends the rest of her morning staring down at the dough on the sheet before her—she’s supposed to be making cookies, or attempting to anyway, but it’s going horrifically wrong. Everyone else’s are small and cute and cut into pretty hearts and stars that are perfect and have straight lines (even Arya’s), but Brienne’s are crooked and lopsided, hearts too big on one side and too small on the other, stars with segments that don’t match up. 

Normally it wouldn’t matter, but Jaime’s here, and so she would like to impress him, maybe, sort of, but this is something she’ll never admit out loud because Brienne Tarth does not have feelings or even a heart for that matter—at least, as far as everyone else is concerned, she doesn’t. They don’t need to know she does and that their words hurt (because she’s built a wall for herself, strong and sturdy, so that she never feels sad or hurt again). And it doesn’t matter anyway because Jaime is old—but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, her thoughts quip that his age means he’s more experienced (where did that come from?!), making her blush and drop her knife and icing. Jaime, of all godforsaken people, hands her the knife and tin of icing, smiling softly as he says, “Careful there, butterfingers.”

She panics and her breath catches in her throat as she nods dumbly and turns back to her awkwardly shaped treats, hoping to melt into the ground, embarrassed. 

He’s hot one minute and cold the next, teasing her and poking at the gap between her teeth that makes her more self-conscious than it has any right to, quips that bra shopping must be a breeze, tells her that it wouldn’t kill her to throw like a girl every once in a while when they play baseball with the other campers, and so on. She laughs and goes along with it, finds something to say that will cut him as deep, if not deeper. On the inside though, his words chip, chip, chip away at her already frayed and practically nonexistent self-esteem. 

Sometimes though—these are rare but she holds them dear and rehashes them when she can’t sleep and Arya’s snuck into Gendry’s bed and Will is out like a light—he’s almost kind and has a semblance of a heart. Like the thing with Cersei, and that time in the kitchens when he said that her hearts look like real hearts, shaped and molded by experiences and memories (it makes her wonder what molded his heart), or that one time on the boardwalk where he sort of complimented her diving technique. (But not really.)

Being so distracted is why she ends up slicing Jaime’s hand. It wasn’t like she meant to. Brienne was trying to frost and think at the same time (she has come to the conclusion that she could never be a housewife, cooking and baking and being pretty all day) and then Jaime caught her off guard and she just turned around and she hadn’t dropped her knife and—

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, blue eyes big and wide as she watched Jaime press a towel to his hand.

“Way to go,” Cersei says scathingly, walking around her table to Jaime. 

“I’m fine,” he says, almost rolling his eyes at her when she asks to see it. “It’s just a cut. I’ll be okay, Cersei. Really.” Cersei huffed, shot Brienne a dirty look, and stomped away, going back to her table with Arianne and Shireen.

“You better not be bleedin’ all over my kitchen!” Robert hollered, narrowing his beady eyes at Jaime. Brienne feels awful—Jaime must think she’s a total klutz at this point and probably never wants to see her ever again and why would she want to see someone like him after camp and—

“You really should get that cleaned up,” she manages to choke out. “I could, er, I could help you, if you want.” Jaime shrugs his shoulders and follows Brienne out of the kitchen.

She can’t shake the feeling of Cersei’s eyes boring into her back.

The walk to the infirmary is basically Brienne making a total fool of herself as she stammers through apologies and Jaime laughing and telling her that it’s really okay and that people have accidents all the time. Despite his reassurance that he really is quite fine, Brienne doesn’t believe him.

The infirmary is quiet. Ygritte is out and Shae is off today, so Brienne is free to do as she pleases. Except that she doesn’t know what she’s doing at all. Jaime sits down and Brienne starts peeking into drawers and cabinets frantically, trying to find something to stop the bleeding (which has at this point all but stopped but that is something that Brienne won’t really acknowledge until she’s in bed and replaying the day in her head). 

“I really am sorry,” she laments.

“For the last time, I’m okay! I’ll live, I promise.”

“I still feel bad.”

“Don’t.” They fall into a contemplative silence for a few seconds before he speaks up again. “Do you wanna talk about what happened to Dany?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“C’mon—you mean to tell me that it didn’t shake you up, not even a little? She tried to kill herself, Brienne—”

“We weren’t even friends.”

“What?” She glances at him and shakes her head as she peeks into a cabinet above her head, frowning. Ygritte needs to start labeling her drawers, Brienne thinks passingly. “She was friends with everyone—”

“Unless you weren’t friends with Jon. She really liked him, you know. No one really talks to me, Jaime.”

“So you mean to tell me you have no friends? What about Arya?”

“Arya’s different.”

“How?”

“She’s like me, but people actually enjoy her company.” She doesn’t know why Jaime’s acting like he’s suddenly interested in her life or something. From what she understands, he isn’t interested and she’s too young for them to even be friends, much less anything else. “People like being around Arya.”

“I like being around you.” Brienne laughs cheaply and prays he can’t see the blush engulfing her face because he likes being around me he said he likes being around me oh heavens—“I think the rubbing alcohol’s on the left,” Jaime says softly and it occurs to her that she’s here and he’s here and they’re alone. It’s not like Brienne’s never been alone with a boy before—but it usually consisted of her defending herself against their advances or something along those lines. Jaime Lannister is a man—a very attractive and sarcastic man who doesn’t care whether or not she breaks (or maybe he does, secretly). Brienne finds the rubbing alcohol, gauze, and cotton balls not soon after.

She throws away the bloody towel and that’s a lot deeper than I thought oh my god I’m a horrible person—

“Holy—” Jaime starts to curse loudly as she cleans the wound, and Brienne has to force herself to look down at his hand, rough and sort of smooth but not really, tanned from the summer sun. They’re strong and supple and she’s never been much of a hands person (she’s never been much of a liking people person period) but Jaime Lannister does have some pretty nice hands. And then she starts wrapping his hand and she’s looking at him and his eyes are really blue and his hair isn’t so much blonde as it is brown and blonde and black and he didn’t shave and that’s really hot and oh my god I need to get it together—

“I think you’re, er, all set there,” she says awkwardly, wondering if she really was drooling or if it was all in her head. “I’ll just—I should probably get going, you know, ’cause, um—I have that thing and—”

“That thing?”

“Yeah! It’s a… thing and I should go! To that thing…” Brienne adds lamely, feeling sheepish.

It’s started to rain while they were inside, and by the time they get back outside, it’s turned into a full on storm. Brienne sighs and Jaime runs a hand through his hair and he shouldn’t do that, because goddamn does he look good.

“So what thing do you have to do again?”

“It’s this…thing that Arya asked me to do for Sansa and, um, it’s just—I don’t really think it’s a big deal and you know I can go by myself, you don’t have to walk with me and—”

It all happens so quickly. One minute Brienne is trying to lie to get away from Jaime and the next she’s covered in Jaime, it’s Jaime all over, Old Spice and aftershave and cigarettes and sarcasm and pomade and cotton and jeans and—

“Be careful!” he chastises. She almost slipped on the muddy grass and normally slipping isn’t a big deal because these are just clothes and dirt does come out, after all. But Jaime—Jaime Lannister—caught her and chastised her about being more careful and if she didn’t know any better, she might just think he cared. He pushes some hair behind her ear. “You okay there, champ?”

Brienne Tarth may very well have feelings after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Jeyne are coming after this. It's the first BRAND SPANKIN' NEW chapter in a long time, so get excited. Or something. If you want. (I LOVE ALL OF YOU AND I'M SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER OOPSIES.)


	12. Jeyne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne Westerling has never felt more pathetic than she did when she watched Robb barrel into their apartment, drunk and wrapped up in that godawful Talisa Maegyr girl.

Jeyne frowns at Robb's messy room, skirts whishing around her knees as she starts picking up shirts and pants off the floor. Robb’s room is usually so neat and orderly, with clean, unwrinkled sheets and fresh, neatly folded shirts in his drawers. Jeyne picks up a box of takeout, sniffs at it and frowns, tossing it in the small wastepaper basket next to his nightstand. He never eats in his room. Or _didn't_ , anyway. After tidying up, Jeyne inspects the bedroom. His alarm clock is on the floor, his clothes are hanging haphazardly in the closet, and there are clothes hanging out of the hamper.

He's always so neat and _clean_ , so this is weird for him. Really weird.

Robb has been acting very strangely lately, and Jeyne was going to get to the bottom of it.

First he forgets his birthday, which is totally unlike him because Robb loves his birthday and always plans a great party to celebrate. He actually likes throwing parties and going out to drink, like any other young socialite with a trust fund that he can finally tap into. Not that he's ever taken advantage of it, but still. Then he stops shaving out of the blue (not that she minds because she kind of likes beards, especially on _him_ ). He's starting to get scruffy, which is weird because he's not big on facial hair. He's spending more and more time at the campground, not that she minds, but she kind of enjoys his company and misses him when he's gone.

The apartment simply isn't the same without him.

Something’s wrong with Robb but she doesn’t know what. Jeyne walks into her room and sits down on her bed, frowning as she starts changing out of her work clothes. When she throws herself onto her bed to tug a pair of leggings up her legs, her phone rings.

It’s _Arys Oakheart_.

He’s only the most handsome actor in all of Hollywood (after Robb, that is) and kind of Jeyne’s secret crush ever since he took his niece, Mae, to registration at Little Wonders, the daycare where Jeyne worked when school wasn’t in session. She had been working there for about a month. Every day without fail, Arys Oakheart would drop his niece off, pick her up, and make Jeyne as red as can be with that _smile_. So, of course, when he asked for her number a few days ago so he can take her out some time, Jeyne is in heaven and gives it to him without even thinking about it.

She hadn't expected him to actually call her back, so imagine her surprise when he actually does. She doesn't know what to do, and so she scrambles to sound totally self composed and confident and as if it's not really a big deal that the man who has, for the last few weeks, distracted her more than he had any right to, is calling her to see what she's doing tomorrow night around seven. She's obviously not busy since she doesn't really have much of a life and the only sort of romanticism found in her life is what might or might not be with Robb, so she agrees to meet him for dinner at a place she can't even pronounce.

Jeyne Westerling is finally going on a real date.

Her last real date was in high school and she doubts that counts because it was _high school_ for crying out loud and she doesn't like to think of Lancel more than she has to. 

Giddy, she walks into the kitchen to make Robb some dinner since it seems that he either isn't coming home again or he's coming home late. He hasn't been himself lately, and Jeyne wonders if maybe she's been neglecting him. They've always been close, but lately, they've been getting more and more distant. She wonders why and makes a note to talk to him when he comes home, and then focuses on the fact that she's going on a real date and on not adding too much salt to the potatoes. 

Jeyne's made his favorite tonight—chicken and potatoes and steamed vegetables—and for dessert, she bought cheesecake—which he absolutely loves and will go crazy over. She sets the table—which really is more for decoration purposes than anything else since they hardly ever eat there—and takes a shower since it seems like he's going to be really late tonight. She changes into a thin blouse and some olive green shorts, eying the front door expectantly. Jeyne glances at her phone—maybe he called while she was getting dressed or something. Nope. 

She sits and waits.

And waits.

And keeps waiting.

Robb _does_ come home, eventually - and her face lights up when she hears his keys in the door - but he's also got that stupid Talisa girl with him - she's been on him like white on rice for the last two or three months but Robb hadn't really paid her any mind. Or at least, that's how it seemed. And they're kissing and groping each other and it's like she's not even there, stumbling into his bedroom. He slams the door shut.

Jeyne sits and stares at the table and cold food. She hasn't cried in a very, very long time, but tears still sting the back of her eyes anyway as she sits on the chairs they picked out at IKEA a few months ago because his old chairs were rickety and falling apart. She clears the table after a few minutes and washes the dishes quickly, blinking and swallowing thickly. She grabs a bottle of water and heads into her room.

Jeyne can _hear_ them and she wants to be sick.

It's not like Robb hasn't dated other girls - he has. And it's not like he hasn't brought them here - he just does it when she isn't home, visiting her parents in the city. He tries to keep it secret - but she can tell. She always can. And it's never bothered her - or at least, she's never let it bother her - but now, seeing him with _her_ cuts Jeyne and bruises her and batters her because she's actually jealous and it makes her angry.

She cries angry sullen tears into her pillow - what is it that those other girls have that she's never had? What was it? What did Roslin Frey have? Or Tyene or Nymeria Sand? Or that stupid Talisa? What did they have? Why couldn't she be one of those girls? Why was she just a friend? She was always his friend. Always. Never anything more. Did he want it that way? Was that why he did it?

When she wakes up the next morning, her eyes are red and puffy and her throat's warm and sore. She cracks open her water bottle and downs half of it in one go, sitting on the edge of her bed. She doesn't have work, which is fine but slightly disappointed because she could really use some of Arys and his flirty smiles. But she's going out with him that night so it's okay.

She goes to the bathroom to shower and it smells like her, and her hair's all over the sink and she used Jeyne's body wash and shampoo _and_ her goddamn conditioner and didn't even bother putting the caps back on. She rolls her eyes angrily, turning the water on. But of course, she's used up all the hot water too. Of course. She takes a quick shower, scowling and annoyed, then steps out, straightens herself out, and gets dressed in her bedroom, shivering and teeth clattering.

All because Robb had to bring that stupid Talisa here.

She pulls a big sweater over her head and some leggings, her hair on her head in a messy wet bun because she really doesn't care, not today - not until later, anyway. But of course Robb is in the living room with one of those stupid dopey grins on his faces because he got laid - she can read him like an open book and just knows him - and it's annoying. He's eating a bowl of cereal, watching Good Morning America on the couch with the cat.

"Mornin'," he greets cheerfully. Jenye simply scowls in response. At least he had the decency to get rid of her before Jeyne woke up. "Stannis called and told me I could take the day off. What do you wanna do today?" Jeyne is sullenly silent, pouring some coffee into a mug and then pouring in some creamer and coffee. Instead of taking up her usual seat next to him on the couch, she sits on the loveseat, tucking up her feet underneath her lap. 

Before he brought her here, they would have probably spent the day goofing off - maybe they'd catch a movie, or maybe she'd try to teach him how to bake again because the last time was a disaster, but it was pretty fun. Maybe. But things are different now, even if he doesn't think so.

"Jeyne?" She glances at him and sips her coffee evenly, glancing at her phone. Ygritte sent her a message about going shopping after she left the hospital, which was going to be in about ten minutes or so. (Daenerys tried to kill herself and now Ygritte is guilt tripping herself, like she held the blade to Dany's wrist or something.) Jeyne types back a chipper response, because even though she's still mad at Robb - furious even - she still wants to get something nice for her date later with Arys. Robb isn't going to ruin it. He's just not. "You okay? Is it one of _those_ days?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. He shaved, much to Jeyne's chagrin. Does she care that he shaved or that he's not all scruffy anymore? "I think there's still some chocolate cake in the back of the fridge. I didn't eat any just in case. You want some?"

"Don't be stupid," she says, running a hand through her hair. Robb frowns and she sinks further into her seat, rolling her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure you're okay? 'Cause you seem - "

"I seem _what_?" Jeyne shoots him a look and takes another sip of her coffee. "It's not like you care anyway." She sets her cup on the coffee table and goes back into her room to get dressed because Ygritte's going to be there any minute because the hospital's literally six or seven blocks down the street.

"Jeyne!" 

She locks the door and leans against it, closing her eyes as she takes a deep breath. Robb is knocking on her door and she ignores him because she's afraid she'll slap him or kiss him and she doesn't know what scares her more. She digs some jean shorts and a tank top out because it's supposed to be warm today and ties it together with some sandals and a pair of sunglasses.

"Jeyne."

Ygritte calls her to let her know she's downstairs and she sighs softly in relief - because Jeyne doesn't know if she can stand being here the whole day with Robb, smelling her on him and knowing that she shared his bed last night because she simply wasn't Jeyne.

Because Robb Stark wants every single girl but Jeyne Westerling, and that's the way it's always been.

"Are you okay?" he asks as she unlocks the door, slipping past him. The sight of a hickey in the hollow of his throat makes her feel like her eyes are on fire, so she just walks quickly out of the apartment and practically bolts to the elevator. 

Robb Stark belongs to everyone but Jeyne, but Jeyne belongs to him and it's not fair, it's just not fair. Ygritte's convertible waits faithfully in front of the building, top down as she grins cheerfully at her. Ygritte's grin fades as Jeyne's bottom lip trembles and she looks away, shaking her head. 

"What happened?"

"He brought Talisa home last night." Ygritte looks at her sympathetically and offers her a cigarette (Jeyne doesn't smoke, not really, but some nights she just needs a cigarette or something because she needs to think about something else for a second) from the glove compartment, flicking a lighter. Jeyne flicks the cigarette shakily, hiccupping as she sinks into the seat. "Talisa freaking Maegyr. _Talisa._ Like - out of all the girls in world - "

"I know," she says, squeezing her hand. "I know."

"And he didn't even - he didn't care. He just - he doesn't care, Ygritte, and I'm so tired about caring for someone who doesn't care about me." She wipes her eyes with her free hand, happy that she hadn't put on much makeup because it would have been streaming down her cheeks at this point. "I'm tired."

"Sometimes you just gotta let go," Ygritte offers, digging a napkin out of the glove compartment as they stop a stoplight. "Isn't your date tonight?" Jeyne nods, sniffling. "This is what we'll do - we'll go out, get you a really nice outfit and some shoes, get you all prettied up, and then you go out with whoever he is." Of course Jeyne hadn't told Ygritte it was with Arys - she'd be freaking out and calling everyone and she doesn't really want to make a scene. "Go and have fun and show Robb that you don't need him to be happy."

Shopping at the mall is fun, mostly because the press doesn't care about Ygritte or Jeyne when they're not with Jon or Robb, meaning that they get to goof off and pig out as much as they want to. They do end up finding a dress for her date, though, but by then it's already time for them to get going so Jeyne has enough time to get ready.

Robb has cleaned a little, and he looks a little sad. Jeyne wants to ask him why but doesn't because it serves him right. And she wants to tell herself that she doesn't care because he's an adult and so is she and they have to do their own thing. Even if it stings and hurts and threatens to tear them into pieces. She takes a shower and blow dries her hair - it's no easy task since her hair is getting pretty long and it's always been thick - and sings along to some music as she walks out of the bathroom, holding her towel around herself tightly.

Robb eyes her with a raised eyebrow, but she scowls at him.

"Can I help you?"

After that, she empties out her bags on her bed and starts to sort through things. She eyes a pair of bra and panties that she bought just in case anything happened, which she doubted, but one could never be too careful. And they were nice anyway, so what did it matter? She slips into them and then glances at the dress they bought. She doesn't really wear things that are that revealing because she doesn't see the point. 

Robb doesn't pay attention to her either way, but it's not about Robb anymore.

It's black and strapless and form-fitting and classy in it's own swanky sort of way. She bought a pushup bra for this dress, and she's wearing the bra so she might as well. She pulls it over her head and past her waist, watching as it hugs her curves. It's not like Jeyne is a stick, but she's not really voluptuous either, but it seems like her odd figure is finally in her favor. 

And then she tries doing her makeup. It's not like she has much of a reason to go all out. She works with young children all day who don't care about what she looks like because they're so busy with their blocks and toys and crayons and naps. And when she comes home, she hangs out with Robb, and he told her that he liked her better without any makeup, so when she does wear it around him, she tries to keep it light. So it's not like she has any expertise in looking like the supermodels that she assumes Arys is used to taking out.

But eventually she manages to get the wings on both of her eyes to look somewhat decent and finds a shade of lipstick that isn't too red nor too pink, and she feels somewhat ready. She's trying to figure out if she wants to leave her hair up or down when Arys calls her to ask which building she lives in so he can pick her up properly.

She's nervous because this is actually happening. Now.

Jeyne slips into her shoes nervously - when was the last time she wore a pair of heels? Or went out? - as the buzzer rings. Robb goes to answer the door. Jeyne listens with bated breath as Arys and Robb talk. Is Robb mad? It doesn't matter, she tells herself sternly. He's probably going out with that Talisa girl anyway.

Jeyne leaves with Arys and doesn't miss how Robb's face falls - a little, sort of - as they leave. She tries not to let it bother her, not really, because she's going out to dinner at a place fancy enough to have valet parking and Arys really is trying, so she should too. She finds out that he's from Boston, but likes the Yankees - _shh_ \- and that he's taking care of his niece while his sister is in rehab over in Wyoming. She learns about his smile and about how he's slightly pretentious, but not really. And she realizes over dinner that while he's not Robb - not even close - at least he wouldn't do what Robb did last night. 

The date went well. Arys was okay. She was okay. Not many people stared, but that's because most of them were celebrities and weren't really impressed by other celebrities. Jeyne had an okay time. It wasn't anything extraordinary, like she'd thought it might be. She'd like to go back to Arys' flat with him. She would. Except that she can't because... because why? She wants to, a small part of her wants to just forget about Robb for a night and think about Arys, but she can't. She comes up with a plausible excuse at the end of dinner and takes a cab home, oddly sad and confused and almost disappointed.

Jeyne Westerling is pathetically in love with her best friend and room mate.

She's looking forward to watching Titanic in her bedroom on her laptop and junk food. She's looking forward to being alone and overanalyzing her feelings. She's looking forward to just thinking. But all those plans go out the window when she finds a sullen Robb sitting on the couch in the exact same place she left him when she left.

"How was your date?" There's undue emphasis on the word _date_ and it makes Jeyne pause and frown as she takes off her earrings and kicks off her shoes.

"What?"

"Well?" he asks expectantly. "I mean, some warning would have been nice."

"Some _warning_?" Jeyne repeats, almost annoyed. "Warning for what? You're not my dad. I don't have to ask you for your permission to go out with a friend."

"So you're friends with Arys."

"I don't know why that's any of your business," Jeyne says, rolling her eyes as she walks to the kitchen to grab some water. Robb follows and stands in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. (Robb is taller than Arys and it makes her smile, a little, but she beats the smile away before Robb can notice.) "I can be friends with whoever I want."

"Even if it's _Arys Oakheart_ , the biggest player to ever walk the Earth? And to think, all this time, you had a better choice in friends." He laughs mirthlessly and she whips towards him, furious.

"Oh, Arys is the player, is he? Says the one who has a one night stand with the girl who wants to be the future mother of his children or something! I mean, she obviously really likes you but all you do is talk about how much you don't like her which is why I don't understand why you took her to your bed last night, but whatever." The color drains out of Robb's pale, freckled face and Jeyne scowls. "Says the one who strings girl after girl along just for fun, for kicks and giggles because it isn't _his_ heart getting broken, am I right?"

"Jeyne - "

"And I don't see why you should care who I'm dating or seeing or talking to, because you have more than enough girls to keep you busy." She slams the drawer shut and stalks to the freezer, pulling out the carton of raspberry ice cream that Robb buys to be eccentric and weird. "If anyone's a player, it's _you_ , Robb. Who cares what Arys does? He's a bored celebrity. That's what they do. That's their job. But you're my best friend and you're not supposed to do that to me! You shouldn't play with my feelings like that - "

The room falls silent as they both realize what Jeyne's just said. Robb looks at her, wide-eyed. Jeyne looks down at the counter and the empty glass bowl, face on fire.

"Jeyne," Robb says softly, but she shakes her head. "We should talk about - "

"About what, exactly?" she asks, frowning. "Should we talk about how I was still your best friend when you were awkward and gangly and weird and still had action figures? How I've always loved you and you've always chased after every other girl but me? How I had to tell you that it'd be okay after girl after girl broke your stupid little heart? No, no, I know what we should talk about. How about we talk about what it's like being the friend at family dinners, about having to deny rumor after rumor because it's so very obvious that my feelings are one sided and that you'll never see me the way you saw Roslin, or Alysanne, or Tyene, or Nymeria, or Talisa or any other girl? How about we talk about we talk about being in love with your best friend, who's too stupidly wrapped up in every other girl but you? Don't tell me - "

"Jeyne - "

"No! I'm tired of just being your friend! I'm tired of seeing you with all these other girls! I wanna be _the_ girl! What did they have that I didn't? Was it because I stood by you through everything? Was that it? No, it must probably be that I'm not some stupid, plastic, ditzy airhead that's up for an Academy Award in a few months. That must be it. Yep. Or maybe because I don't have a trust fund? Or maybe you just knew all this time and didn't care."

Robb holds her by her arms, frowning at her. Here it comes. He doesn't want to see her again. He's obviously in love with Talisa and they're going to elope or something stupid and romantic - because Robb is stupid and romantic - and leave Jeyne here all alone. He's going to tell her to leave because she can't stay there with _those_ feelings.

"Robb."

"You can tell me how much you hate me later. I just need you to know that I've loved you ever since I first laid eyes on you and that I've been stupid, and irresponsible, and reckless, and I'm sorry, and that every time I saw you with some other guy I wanted to rip his arms off. I think you should also know that I'd much rather see you in my shirts than anything else. Also, you should probably know that all I think about is kissing you, and for the last two hours, I've been thinking up different ways to sabotage any future dates you might have with Arys, because he doesn't deserve you. And I mean, neither do I, but I think that I stand a better chance than he does on looks and personality alone. Also, I'm very much in love with you, and you take my breath away whenever you walk into a room, or smile, or laugh, or do anything else. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm sorry. You deserved to know and that was a failure on my part."

When Robb Stark finally kisses Jeyne Westerling, good and proper, it feels like they're both on fire and there's no water to quench it. But, she muses, biting her lip as she smiles at him, perhaps she doesn't exactly mind the burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOH ROBB AND JEYNE????!!??? And also I just wanna say hi and hello to everyone who reads this story but hasn't spoken up because I don't get to properly and personally thank you. SO HI, HELLO, THANKS. (SPEAK UP OKAY I DON'T BITE ;D)
> 
> Next up, our favorite troublesome couple speaks up, sort of.


	13. ygritte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen can have Jon if she wants him. Ygritte says this to herself time and time again, but she doesn’t believe it and really, neither does anyone else. Not really. Not until she meets someone else.

Ygritte has mixed feelings about visiting Dany every day. While she doesn’t like her and truly can’t stand her, Ygritte still feels bad about what happened. Because _obviously_ she was unbalanced enough or sad enough or miserable enough that taking her own life seemed like the only viable option. And it’s not Ygritte’s fault, not really - she was a whole sea away - but still. She feels guilty and so she sits and reads the paper to her, helps her take a bath, reads her greeting cards with her, watches Glee and New Girl on Netflix with her, et cetera.

They’ve formed a weird, morbid sort of bond over their heartbreak.

After all, the same man broke both of their hearts within the same relative time frame.

They’re not friends - not anywhere close to it - but at least Dany doesn’t hate her anymore. Or at least, Ygritte thinks she doesn’t. She could never really tell. And she thinks that Dany is just about ready to go home, or back to Highgarden, or wherever she wants - they’ve danced around the topic without ever really talking about it - but on a rainy Wednesday morning, something happens that makes her think otherwise.

Ygritte was only gone for fifteen minutes at _most_. She went to the cafeteria to get them both some lunch, but on her way down was distracted by a doctor she once knew - before she even met Jon - and they talk for a bit before going their seperate ways. His wife has just had a baby and for a minute or two she coos at all his wallet sized pictures of Jasmine, his little girl. The line isn’t that long, but it does take her a fair bit to make it out of the cafteria. And then something happened with the elevators, so she had to take the stairs. It wasn’t like Ygritte was really planning on staying very long after lunch. She had a job to do at Highgarden, after all. 

And then she spies Jon, his hair curling around his nape, as he rubs his hands together nervously. She always thinks that her next encounter with Jon will leave her the victor and that she’ll remind him of what he left behind and that she’ll be strong and happy and he’ll see that she doesn’t need him anymore. But Ygritte doesn’t do any of that - doesn’t smirk or flip her hair or do _any_ of that. She just stands there and stares at him, numbly surprised.

He hasn’t come to see Dany ever since her accident of sorts, and if he has, Ygritte’s missed him. She thought that maybe Jon had changed, a little, and that maybe his affections toward Dany had cooled somewhat. Maybe she was wrong. If Dany wasn’t his lover, why else would he be here? None of the other counselors had come to see her - at least, not without some of the kids.

Ygritte meets his brown eyes flatly, almost awkward as they look at each other in the bustling white hallway, nurses and doctors milling around them. Hasn’t he done enough damage? She knows him well enough to know that he’s not going to look away until she does, so she keeps staring at him, taking in his slight, gaunt features, dull brown eyes and almost black hair combed neatly. He’s shaving again, which is a mild improvement from when she first got back and he looked like a homeless person.

“Ygritte.”

“Jon.” She chews her gum slowly, trying to keep a strong front. He looks tired, paler than she remembered him being, like he’s not eating right - and he probably isn’t because he burns everything and can’t cook - and she feels a little bad. Almost. “You’re here to see Daenerys then?”

“Er... yeah. I just wanted to see how she was doing. Stannis would have come but, um, he’s busy, you know? So he asked me.” She nods and he gulps a little. He looks guilty, like he did something he shouldn’t have (with Dany, maybe?) and it makes her feel like she’s going to be sick. “So, um, how are you?”

“I’m great,” Ygritte says, smiling for added effect. “Never better, actually. You?”

“I’m good too,” Jon says tightly. He smiles a little but it’s forced and awkward, and a small piece of her misses him, a little. Just a tiny bit.

She doesn’t need anyone. She really doesn’t. She came to America alone, did everything she had to do alone, and currently sleeps alone. And she’s fine. She truly, honestly is. So why did it feel like she was breaking when she saw Jon again?

“Have you been here all day?” Jon asks, trying to make conversation. She finally looks away, towards Dany’s room, because it hurts too much to look at him, to remember what they had and how he just _threw it away_ for the girl lying in a hospital bed because she loved him too much.

“Can you move, please?” Ygrtitte asks softly instead, staring down at the stark white tile beneath her brown sandals. The tan paper bags almost slip out of her sweaty palms as she taps her foot. “Daenerys is hungry and I have to feed her before I go back.”

“We should carpool. I took the bus.” Ygritte looks at Jon again and frowns a little, knitting her eyebrows together. “I mean, we’re going to the same place anyway.” Her pale hand rests on the doorknob as she twists it a little. “I’m not going to do anything to you. I just want to talk.”

“There’s nothing left to talk about, Jon. Can you please move?” She looks at him and feels her eyes smarting because she misses him so badly that it aches and her chest feels heavy and she wants to cry and hold him and kiss him but she can’t because she just _can’t._

(It's not okay. None of this will ever be _okay_.)

“Ygritte - " She shoves him roughly out of her way, almost into a standing rack of medical supplies, boxes of bandages and pretty soft white gauze jostling a little with the impact. She slams the door in his face and leans against it, eyes closed. 

Daenerys still has her eyes glued to the soap opera on the small screen mounted on the wall, licking some salt off her fingers. Ygritte spies a bag of chips in her lap and smiles a little. She takes a seat next to Dany and pulls the over bed table over, setting the bag on it. The young girl looks at Ygritte, surprised.

“Oh, you’re back. Jon came by. He was asking for you. You seen him?” 

“No, I haven’t. I must have missed him.” She shrugs, unwrapping the lunch with a fake smile. “Aren’t you hungry?”

They eat in silence for a few seconds until Dany asks Ygritte to help her open her pudding cup. The nurse peels the plastic off easily and sticks a spoon inside, picking at her own untouched sandwich.

“I know that you aren’t particularly fond of me and that you don’t really have much of a reason to like me in the first place, but I figure I might as well tell you the truth about what happened. I just - Jon made me feel special, but now he just - I feel like he doesn’t feel the same way about me anymore. We never actually had sex, if that makes you feel any better?”

Ygritte stares at her sandwich and refuses to look at Dany, biting her lip.

Are they seriously having this conversation? They probably did have sex, and even if they didn't, it still doesn't change what Jon did.

“That’s the one thing he never wanted to do with me. Said that it really would be cheating if we did that, but we did pretty much everything else, so...” Dany swallows some chocolate pudding, licking her spoon slowly. “He misses you. That’s all he talked about. He came here because he wanted to see you, not me. He didn’t even ask me how I was doing, or how I felt. He doesn’t care about me anymore, Ygritte.”

“He doesn’t care about anyone,” Ygritte says lightly, taking a tentative bite. It tastes like ash, all of it. She sets it down and chews slowly, feeling muted and deflated. The rumors were true. Mostly. It hurts, hearing what she thought to be true confirmed by the one person who would know best, stabs and twists and pulls and _burns._

“I seduced him. He didn’t want to touch me at all, at first. He said he loved you all the time. And when he kissed me, he told me it meant nothing. And when he _touched_ me, he said that it was all nothing and I couldn’t tell anyone. When I touched him, he’d always make me stop before he finished because - " She stops short and Ygritte can hear the tears in her voice as she struggles to continue. “Because he said that you were better and that it didn’t feel as good when I tried.” Dany reaches for Ygritte’s hand and she can see the blood seeping through the white bandages as she squeezes her hand. “I don’t know what he told you and I don’t want to know. It doesn't matter anymore. None of it does. It’ll only make me feel worse. But I just want you to know that despite everything, he loved you. Do you know what it’s like to lay there with someone you trust and care for, and have them pant and moan another woman’s name? He loves you. I know you don’t care for him very much anymore, but he really does love you.”

*

Ygritte is sitting in her cabin with Willas, staring at the door blankly as he talks about Sansa again (like always, because the Starks have a way of worming their way into unsuspecting hearts). She rocks back on the leg of the chair, closing her eyes at the soft, light creak against the old wooden floor.

“Don’t you think so?” Willas asks, breaking her out of her reverie. She looks at him as he pulls out a handkerchief and holds it to his nose, watching her expectantly. She feels so lost lately, but is trying to put on a front for the kids. She still has a responsibility to them after all, and they don't need to deal with her drama on top of their own teenage angst.

“Why don’t you just kiss her already?” He blushes and shakes his head, sniffling. “She likes you.”

“But she’s so pretty - "

“And you’re so very handsome. You’d have the cutest babies.”

“I’m 17,” he says embarassed, flushing as he shakes his head. “I’m not going to marry her or something. Not yet.”

 _“Yet._ ” She wriggles her eyebrows at him and grins. “You’re at a wonderful age now, Willas. Everything’s beautiful and green and golden. Enjoy it, for my sake. It’s okay to like someone. And someone like Sansa? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They sit in silence, comfortably taking in the static of the radio as they interview a celebrity, the buzzing of the insects banging insistently on the window screens, the way the wind plays with the curtains. It’s a very beautiful, comfortable afternoon. Willas glances at his watch and gets up, bidding Ygritte goodbye.

“Where are you going?”

“Sansa and Loras are having a diving contest. I’m going to go watch, of course. I have to cheer her on.” He grins.

“You little creep. Get on with it,” Ygritte teases, shooing him away. He shuts off the radio on his way out. “Wear some sunscreen!” she yells as the screen door flaps shut.

Ygritte finds herself alone, comfortable in the silence that envelops the room once again as she stares blankly at the wall, thoughts wandering. When she was 17, she was seeing a boy who’s name she couldn’t place, but who had a motorcycle and gave her a leather jacket she had somewhere in the boxes of things she had yet to unpack, along with the rest of her things. Something just felt off. It wasn’t like she didn’t like living with Val and Jarl and going out with them every other night. It was just that Ygritte didn’t quite like being the third wheel, hearing her friends trying to be quiet for her sake, having Val come bring her ice cream when she thought Ygritte was sad. She rolled her eyes and blew a bubble with her gum lazily, sighing heavily.

She’d have to find her own flat soon. She’d never lived alone - never had to, but due to recent events, she feels like she has no other option. Val wasn’t kicking her out, far from it, but Ygritte felt like she was starting to wear out her welcome and would be better off moping by herself.

Later that evening, while Jarl and Val go out for dinner (she opted to stay at home, no sense in being a third wheel) Ygritte sits in her room and pours over classified ads online for apartments. She’s not looking for anything fancy, like what she and Jon had (used to have, she reminds herself sadly), just something with enough room for her to breathe and relax and have her things in.

She finds a one bedroom apartment for about $700 plus utilities, which isn’t half bad. It’s in an _okay_ part of town and it’s not that far away from the campground. And at least Jon won’t be in the neighborhood anymore. It’s quick work, getting the apartment - she goes to see it the next day, pays her first month's rent and security deposit, and then calls the movers.

Val is sad, of course, but Ygritte tells her that she wants to be independent and give them their space too, and that sort of lessens the blow. 

She finishes moving in on a rainy Sunday night, blowing her hair out of her face as she takes in her living room, mismatching couches and frames and a TV. Her kitchen is cute, blue with a window that looks out into a park, an old white oven and matching refridgerator taking up about half the space. The cabinets are a little messed up, but that’s nothing she can’t fix. The bathroom is peach and white with a large claw foot tub and no shower head. She makes a note to buy curtains. And then there’s her bedroom, her large queen-sized bed taking up most of the space. Her dresser and mirror are up against the wall, her pictures sitting neatly on the wooden surface.

Ygritte feels alone as she sits down on her bed, pulling her sweater tightly around herself. She thought that living alone would make her happy - not having Jon around or Val hovering about was bound to ensure her happiness, wasn’t it? So why did she feel so... empty?

Did she actually miss the stupid, pale bastard?

No.

She didn't, right?

_Right._

*

Ygritte slams her hands against the wooden wall of the bathroom stall, hot angry tears streaming down her face as she curses and leans her head against the sticky blue wall. She hiccups, chest bouncing as she tries to gather herself and fails. It's not fair. None of this is fair at all. She can't _breathe_ and everything hurts. 

(Jon was in the society pages of the newspaper this morning, dressed to impress with a buddling starlet on his arm - one of the Martell girls maybe? - at his mother's benefit dinner last night, kissing and touching her and making Ygritte feel like she had swallowed a thousand ice cubes and they were all burning their way down her throat.)

She tears up the newspaper angrily, scattered pieces of it floating to the floor as she storms out of the stall. Melisandre is washing her hands, meeting her eyes in the mirror. She smiles a little as Ygritte scowls, grabbing a stack of papertowels as she runs the faucet.

"What're you gawkin' at? There's nothin' to see here, you hear?"

"Of course not."

No one said that it would hurt this much.

*

It feels weird, being at a bar without Val or Jon or anyone. It feels weird being alone, but she's adjusting. Or at least she's tried to adjust. It isn't exactly going well, but it could be worse. At least no one's tried to put anything in her drink, and she's been mostly able to keep to herself. This is nice.

And then _he_ shows up.

He's blonde and blue-eyed and he has freckles on his cheeks, a sweet accent and is from some place out the South, smells like overpriced clothing stores and leather, touches her cheek and buys her a drink and makes her smile and laugh, sort of. It's nice.

She forces herself not to feel guilty as they dance and share drinks and even share a cigarette - Jon didn't care anymore and she shouldn't either, right? 

Ygritte finds herself surprised when he kisses her cheek as she gets into her cab and asks if he can meet her for lunch sometime next week.

His name is Aegon.

*

Ygritte's sitting on her bed, buttoning her blouse as she takes in her reflection nervously. It's a date. Aegon is nice, makes her smile, takes her out and makes her feel _okay_. For a few hours, she can forget about Jon. (At least until after she comes home to her empty, small apartment that feels as big as any oversized loft without _him_.) Anyway, they haven't called any of their outings a _date_ \- they've been in broad daylight, in busy, crowded places that feel oddly intimate - but he's picking her up at 8:30 for dinner at some fancy restaurant. At least she thinks it's dinner and that it's at a fancy restaurant, because he told her to dress nice.

So she's guessing it's a date.

It's her first real date since Jon and she's not sure how she feels. 

Ygritte shakes her head, stuffing the pale chiffon shirt into the tight black skirt, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She even put on make up. She never puts on makeup. Not even for Jon, not for Val, _no one_. She never felt the need to. For some reason, she really wants to impress him, wants him to like her, wants to feel like this is all normal.

Is it?

She slides her feet into heels she only wore once or twice, teetering for a few seconds until she gathers her bearings. A pale finger reaches up to wipe the corners of her lips, and she smiles at herself in the mirror. It's going to be fine. She's going to be fine. 

The doorbell rings at quarter after 8 and she panics. She's not ready. She still has to find her blazer under the moutain of clothes littering her floor, not to mention find her keys and she hasn't brushed her teeth and she can't find her perfume and - it rings again and she sighs, biting her lip. Is he going to like her flat? She hopes he does.

(Why does he matter?)

She smiles widely as she opens the door, only to have it fall when she sees who's on the other side.

Jon stares at her for a few silent moments, face solemn as always as she blinks, surprised. What's he doing here? What does he want? How did he even _find_ her?

"What do you want?" she asks dumbly, feeling her eyes smarting. 

"Ygritte."

"Yes?" She tilts her head and cocks her hip, hand resting on her waist as she stares at him. "Can I help you?"

"Can we talk?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There's everything to talk about."

"There isn't," she protests, grabbing a light jacket from the coat closet. She spies her keys and wallet on the small table and goes to grab them, flipping her hair over her shoulder again. (She really needs a haircut. When did it get so long?) "And even if there was," Ygritte continues, "I'm going out, so it's really not a good time."

"With who? Val and Jarl are on vacation," he says. Is he implying she doesn't have any friends? Okay, maybe she doesn't, not really, but still. That's not fair. (She only needed Jon and Val, and sometimes Jarl. That's it. But now that she doesn't really have any of them, she's trying to branch out, and who does Jon think he is to make her feel bad for that? Like she owes him any explanations.)

"A friend."

"That's how you dress to see a friend?" Ygritte looks up from her clutch, eyes burning as she scowls. "Really? So soon, Ygritte?"

"Soon? _You're_ talking to me about _soon_? At least I'm not parading myself around all over the place with one of those stupid Martell girls! At least I _waited_ until we were over. At least I'm half a decent human being, unlike _you_. I don't know who you think you are, but you're no one to me anymore. Do you understand me?"

"Ygritte - "

"Go away."

"Don't I at least get to know who it is?"

"No." She shoves him out of her way with her shoulder as she shuts her door, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She can meet Aegon downstairs, can't she? She unlocks her phone to let him know there's no need to come up, but he's already texted her and is in the elevator when it opens, pleasantly surprised.

"Ygritte," Aegon says, smiling as he hugs her tightly. "I didn't know what you liked, but I got you some flowers."

"You didn't have to," she replies, smelling the bouquet - it's really all too much, it's so pretty and she wants to cry (Jon never bought her flowers) - as she giggles. 

"Who's your friend?"

"No one," Ygritte answers loftily, pressing the button to close the doors as Jon looks at her, forlorn.

She wonders how he likes the taste of his own medicine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't died! I've just been super super busy with school but I managed to finally crank this one out for you guys. THANKS SO MUCH FOR BEING PATIENT AND SUPPORTIVE. ILY!


	14. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark is certain of three things. Number one: blue is totally her color, mostly because Willas says he likes it. Number two: she's very much over Joffrey - Joffrey who? - and has now set her sight on Willas Tyrell. Number three: this summer is going to be the summer she finally gets what she wants, or namely who. Namely: Willas Augustus Tyrell, wallflower extraordinaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is. I have an idea for the next chapter, and the rest of the other chapters are still being heavily edited/revised. enjoy! thoughts are welcome.

Willas Tyrell is handsome, Sansa muses over her copy of Ulysses. Not in the way that girls think Robb is (they've never seen him early in the morning without any product in his hair, or with sand in his eyes with drool on the corner of his lips, or the way he tears apart dinner) or the way that she thought Joffrey was, either. He's handsome in that old school, Clark Gable sort of way, funny and soft and still polite and genuine. He could be, perhaps, the most genuine person Sansa has ever known.

She's reading Ulysses to spite him, but she doesn't really think she's managed to get his attention, not yet.

Sansa is supposed to be sunbathing with Loras and Marg, and she is, but she can't help but to observe Willas hiding out in the shade. His skin is sensitive and after his first sunburn experience a few weeks ago, he's been loathe to sit out in the sun. (It only happened because he wanted to keep Sansa company, and while Sansa got a really nice golden color, he turned red as could be and burned his cheeks and arms quite harshly, despite the thick layer of sunscreen he'd put on.) He's lying underneath the shade of a tree on the edge of the beach, sitting next to Renly with a copy of War and Peace on his lap.

Everything about Willas is dreamy.

He loves War and Peace, she knows, mostly because he talks about Tolstoy like he hung the damn moon. (Tolstoy is okay. Joyce and Wilde are the real literary visionaries.) Still, he hasn't so much as cracked the book open, engaged in a deep conversation with the young counselor. What could they possibly be on about? Could it be Arianne? Sansa's seen how she looks at Willas, and she'll be damned if she loses Willas to Arianne, of all people.

Arianne Martell is everything Sansa Stark isn't. She isn't a starlet, and yet has gained extreme notoriety based off her modeling career. She's got soft black waves that carress the small of her back, golden brown skin and eyelashes that are too long to be real and yet they still are. She's got the hourglass figure to die for, and her skin is smooth and supple and she's nice to everyone, everyone loves Arianne, everyone wants Arianne. Especially Willas. Marg denies it, and says he doesn't really talk about her very much, but Sansa knows boys based on her extensive experience studying them from afar. And she knows that Willas likes her, because why wouldn't he?

Sansa doesn't even care, because, like, Willas isn't even her boyfriend, her anything, except she kind of does because Arianne doesn't even like him (she has a massive crush on Garlan, despite his engagement with Leonette). Sansa is just worried that... that he might get his hopes up, and that she might end up breaking his heart or something. Willas seems like the sensitive type.

"Sansa?" Loras asks, turning onto his back. "Can you put some sunscreen on my back? I can't reach all the way." He gives her an easy, knowing grin. She knows that behind the rounded frames of his dark sunglasses, he's giving her that look. His all knowing gaze. He knew how she felt about Willas, how couldn't he? And he wouldn't tell Willas because of the strong bond he shared with Sansa, but that would never stop him from teasing her mercilessly about it.

"Yeah, no problem," is Sansa's easy reply. She screws open the blue cap on the white bottle, squeezing some lotion into her palm as she narrows her eyes. Across the beach, Arianne is playing volleyball with some of the girls and to be honest, Sansa couldn't care any less if she really wanted to. She's so mad at the whole idea that Willas would even entertain anything with Arianne. Not that she's not nice or pretty or smart - Arianne is everything Willas is probably interested in. She's so regal and kind and beautiful and even if Sansa wanted to hate her, she couldn't.

Everyone loves Arianne.

And that was okay, at first, because Sansa was happy and proud of her integrity and ingenuity and everything that made her who she was. She was still an actress, and not everyone made it big at first, right? Arianne was who she was and so was Sansa. They moved in distinctly different circles and she was rather happy for it, to be honest. But then Willas waltzed into Sansa's life in that quiet, unassuming way he had about him, and Sansa realized, perhaps, for the first time in her life, that she couldn't get everything she wanted and that made her a little angry. Willas and Arianne were actually thicker than thieves, had a friendship that rivaled Robb and Jon's - which was a pretty strong friendship, really. But she knew Arianne.

Arianne wasn't the type of girl who could just be friends with a boy. There was always another agenda, some hidden, secret motive... and her relationship with Willas was no different. But she wasn't jealous, was the thing. She wasn't. She was just... is just concerned about Willas and his wellbeing in the most friendly, platonic, non-romantic way possible.

"Sansa?" Loras asked, curly head turning up to look at her. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sansa murmured, rolling off of Loras' back. "I'm fine."

*

During lunch, Arianne is all but sitting on Willas' lap. Sansa wants to enjoy her meal, because it's something that for once is actually edible. Mr. Baratheon has prepared fried chicken and gravy and mashed potatoes and there's even vegetarian stir fry for those who don't eat meat, and dessert is soft serve ice cream. Sansa was in heaven. No more healthy slop. Here was the good stuff, and Sansa just wanted to eat until she couldn't anymore. And she had Marg here, and Loras wasn't trying to get Renly off underneath the table, mostly because Renly was in some "meeting" with Robb and Jon, and Arya and Gendry had kind of worked it out.

And yet.

Sansa eats with a heavy heart, staring intensely at Willas and Arianne. They look so good together, too. Willas is actually laughing at her jokes, and Arianne seems to be more comfortable around him than Sansa has ever been. Arianne Tyrell does have a nice ring to it, too.

"You can't burn holes into her head, you know." Loras' hand finds hers under the table and and gives it a comforting squeeze. "And it may not be as bad as you might think."

The way Willas' cheeks spread in a grin that takes over his entire face makes her think otherwise, however, Arianne leaning into him and pressing her face into his shoulder. Sansa is being irrational, she knows that, but it doesn't help the burning behind her eyes any, or how she looks down and forces herself not to cry.

*

Willas and Sansa usually meet up in the library every few days to talk about their literary conquests, about the books they've read or planned to read, or just about the happenings around the camp. She had grown fond of these meetings, behind the brick structure with a bag of sweets and two bottles of tea. They weren't dates and she knew that, obviously, but Sansa had thought... maybe, that they meant something more, that maybe Willas looked forward to them in the same ways he did.

But maybe he didn't.

Sansa sat patiently on the soft grass, tugging the cool green strands as she stared at the dense brush behind the building. There was a small patch of wildflowers here, which was where they sat, that divided the large library from the thick, dense woods behind it. She likes sitting here because it's quiet and serene and she can almost delude herselfi nto thinking that she's in a small little bubble with Willas, and that there's nothing in the outside world that could hurt them. She sits there and dwells on her feelings of inadequacy.

Willas... Willas was different. Is different. He isn't like anyone she's ever met before. Most people can't really see through her the way Willas does, and if they do, they make it a point to let her know. But Willas... he's just patient, and kind, and tender. He makes her feel something inside that she's never felt for anyone ever before and she wants him, wants him wholly and totally and in anyway possible.

But Willas wants Arianne, and he's made it painfully obvious. Which, honestly, isn't a big deal, because they make a really nice couple and they just look good together, and she seems to make him happy. But does she see how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs? Has she made mental constellations with the dusting of freckles on his nose? Does Arianne even know that he likes mint and chocolate chip ice cream, but not vanila?

But Arianne is pretty in the ways that Sansa could never be, and that... it's okay. Except, it isn't, not when Willas is late for their rendevous, cheeks flush red as he rubs the back of his neck apologetically.

"Hey, sorry," he says, sinking down to sit on the soft grass with Sansa. She was about to get ready to leave, but stops short when he sits with her. She wants to be angry, accousatory - were you with her again? But she can't bring herself to be angry when he smiles and nudges her playfully with his elbow. His hair is brown and smooth, combed neatly, and his eyes are green and happy, and - he must have been with Arianne, and the thought that he could be so happy with a girl who didn't even care about the things he cared about makes her feel like she could throw up. "I got caught up with something."

"I'm sure," she mumbles softly, unable to look at him. If she looks at Willas, he'll know. And Willas, being who he is, will try to make her feel better, but will only make it worse. She can feel the frown on his face, and it makes her feel weird, and guilty, like she shouldn't have said anything, nothing at all. "How's Tolstoy treating you?"

"He's still... Tolstoy, I guess?" Willas answers uneasily. She wishes she could be a better actress... like Arianne, Arianne who's so soft and beautiful and can display any emotion she so chooses with a frightening ease. "Are you okay?"

Sansa's soft, "Yeah," doesn't seem to convince Willas as much as she wishes it would, and it frustrates her. He's going to pity her. She doesn't need his pity, she doesn't. She shouldn't have been so stupid, so silly to entertain notions like that of him liking her.

"No, you aren't. Did Joffrey Baratheon do something?" Willas asks softly, trying to meet her gaze. She can't look at him. He's everything Margaery and Loras aren't, soft and unassuming, not as calcuated, earnest... genuine. He's so sincere and heartfelt in everything he feels, and she knows that her feelings for him aren't mutual.

"I haven't seen him." Sansa looks away, picking at the snacks she'd brought for them to eat. He had been late because he was with Arianne. Sansa just knows. "I just..." She feels her lips draw close in a small, practiced line. She's destined to never have someone care about her the way she cares about them. First Joffrey, now Willas. Who was next?

"Is everything okay? You haven't really... you haven't been yourself lately. Arianne - " A scoff leaves Sansa's lips at the mention of the charming girl, fingers tugging at the grass angrily. Willas stops short.

"Arianne. Of course," she scowls, rolling her eyes. "Arianne."

"Yes, Arianne. She's my friend, she - oh." Willas is quiet, too quiet. Like he's thinking, piecing things together, and Sansa can't have that. "Is there something we need to talk about?"

"No," Sansa replies, tone even and stubborn. "I should probably go." She begins to gather up her things, ready to take her leave of Willas before he can accuse her of something she can't deny, because she's never been able to lie well, even for an actress. "I'll see you tomorrow, Willas - "

"You're jealous of Arianne?" Willas' laugh is easy, and it's infuriating, and still endearing, and equally hurtful. Sansa doesn't know what to do, standing there with her hands balled tightly around the strap of her cross body purse. "Arianne Martell?"

"I've seen you two together."

"Mm." Willas is standing, too, she can see his shadow in the soft grass. "Why are you jealous?"

"I never said I was." Sansa glares at the grass, not daring to look at Willas still. She'll hit him, if she turns around. "I need to go."

"Go where?"

"Do you really care? You were busy with Arianne before you came here. I can smell her perfume on you."

"She doesn't wear perfume, Sansa." Sansa bristles - how could he know something so intimate? Have they had sex? "Can you look at me, at least?"

"I really should leave. Arya and I are going to have a girls' night with Marg and Shireen. Maybe bake something in the kitchen later for Dany or something," she mumbles, walking away quickly.

*

Sansa stares at her ceiling that evening, letting Shireen paint her nails with a small smile. Shireen is a gentle, docile girl, thirteen and really pretty in an unconventional, odd way. She's so nice, and sweet, and she doesn't know who had the great idea of pairing her with someone as vicious as Dany, but. Margaery and Arya are talking about Gendry and Renly in hushed wispers, which makes her skin crawl.

"Do you like black or orange?" Shireen asks, tugging on Sansa's hand. Sansa glances over at her, and shrugs.

"Orange is fine." Shrieen grins and begins to coat every other nail in a smooth, shiny coat of bright, blood orange, almost as bright as her own hair.

Willas is on her mind the whole evening, during pedicures and gossip about the camp, during a moviefest until curfew and the counselors come around to walk their campers back to their cabins and check in with them. He was probably somewhere dark and quiet with Arianne, making love under the stars or something as stupid and romantic, because that was the kind of person Willas was. He was silly, and loved the irony in things, and he was hers, wasn't he?

*

Sansa hates herself for having asked Willas to join her, Robb, and Jeyne for dinner last week. Jeyne and Robb were finally a real couple, after years of endless pining and cat-and-mouse games on both parts, and she wanted to celebrate that. Also, she hasn't seen Jeyne in far too long, and misses her greatly. It's only because she doesn't want to be a third wheel. That's why she invites Willas. It wasn't a date. (Yes it is. It's a double date, with her older brother and his lady love.)

They're sitting in the back of Robb's neat little coupe. Jeyne and Robb look so happy together, hands intertwined and fingers skirting over one another's on Robb's thigh. He's wearing slacks, grey, a white shirt with a blue tie, and a comfortable looking jacket. Jeyne's dress is bright, yellow with an empire skirt, and livens her up greatly.

The perfect couple sits in front of Sansa, and all she wants to do is enjoy this, but she can't. She simply can't. It's family day at camp and instead of eating dinner with her parents and Arya and their little brothers, she's sitting in the back of this car and trying hard not to cry.

Willas looks good. His suit is blue, and it isn't fitted, not like Loras', and yet, it fits him very well. Too well. His shirt is white, no tie, and Sansa is half sure he's wearing aftershave. He looks like... like a man, not like her Willas. Like he's made a conscious effort, which is weird, because - well, he has Arianne, after all.

"Sansa?" She meets Robb's eyes in the mirror, a little sheepish. "Are you alright? You look a little pale."

"I have a piece of gum in my clutch if you want one," Jeyne offers, turning around to fix Sansa with one of her happy, bright grins. Her brown hair is fixed in loose, bouncy curls, make up bare and still very striking. She's got a striking face... and Arianne does, too. The thought of Arianne makes her mouth taste sour, and she accepts the piece of gum without much preamble, thanking her softly as she unwraps it.

Sansa's gaze rests on the skirt of her own dress. It's soft, white with small little blue polka dots. The top part is blue, and it's sleeveless, and it shows off her tan so nicely, but she can't feel good about it. Not when she knows how awful things are between her and Willas now. They don't really talk anymore, and whenever she sees him with Arianne, she reminds herself he's happy. Or he seems happy, maybe a little more dull and down lately, but overall, happy.

When she goes to stuff the small wrapper into her purse, she catches Willas' gaze. It's unabashed, a little shy, but still, more... intense than before. Not in a bad way, not really, but it catches her off guard. He looks away after a moment, at the bright lights and all the people and buildings that whirl past.

*

They're in the middle of a story Jeyne's telling about one of her children at the daycare when Sansa feels Willas' stare on her face. She's sitting next to him out of necessity, not totally out of desire. Jeyne sat with Robb, and the only place she had left to sit was with Willas. He pulled out the chair for her and everything, and Jeyne said he was a little gentleman. He blushed.

"And she jumps off the table," Jeyne continues, hands animated. Robb looks at her like she's hung the moon. Willas laughs politely, even though Sansa's sure he's as lost as she is. Sansa stopped following the story two minutes into it, overwhelmed. Willas seems grown, and manly, and everything Sansa has desperately tried to ignore over the last few days. He's polite, and kind, and his face is so perfect and his eyes are expressive and free. He is... Willas, and belongs to someone else.

Arianne Martell. She doesn't even like him. Not the way Sansa does. Willas' gaze leaves her occasionally, but not for every long, and he makes her feel exposed. Naked, underneath all these lights, soft whispers, and candles. The restaurant is nice, classy, and it's really expensive for Robb, who's usually very conservative and doesn't spend money like this unless it's a special night.

"I'm gonna go, um, power my nose," Sansa says softly, scooting back in her chair to get up, hands gripping the small brown purse in her hands. "I'll be back in a moment."

Willas stares at her as she leaves. She doesn't have to turn around to know, she can just feel his eyes on her back and she knows he is. Her heels click against the hardwood floors in the empty hallway. She sighs in relief when she eyes the bathroom door, rushing in. Her fingers fumble with the lock on one of the doors in a stall closest to the wall. Her hands hold on tightly to the clutch, feeling ugly tears roll down her cheeks.

Willas wants to be her friend. And she wants to be his friend. She can be happy with his friendship, but she wants more, and it's selfish of her to want more. It's enough that's he's her friend, that he's helping her piece herself together after all that happened with Joffrey... but it isn't. She wants him to look at her the way Arianne looks at him, wants his affection, his admiration... him.

It is too difficult for Sansa to sit there and just... just pretend, pretend that they're okay, and that she's okay with being his friend, and that she doesn't mind seeing him with Arianne. It's too much, and she's done all she can. When she's done feeling sorry for herself, she walks out of the stall and washes her face in one of the many sinks lining the wall, dries it, and begins to redo her make up.

By the time Sansa rejoins everyone, their dinners have arrived. Willas hasn't touched his, and stands up again to pull the chair out for her and settle her back into her seat. Robb and Jeyne are in their own little love bubble again, which leaves her vulnerabl to all of Willas' niceties. Willas unwraps his napkin, looking down at his food. Sansa's food smells heavenly, and all she wants to do is dig into the tenderly cooked chicken and the helping of vegetables on the side, but... still. Her heart feels very heavy, and despite her crying jag, she doesn't feel much better.

"How's your food?" he asks, for the sake of conversation and politeness. She glances at him, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She shrugs and goes back to eating, savoring over each bite. "Your chicken looks moist," he tries again, but to no avail.

Sansa doesn't bite, whenever he tries to talk. She's just quiet and very unassuming, and tries to enjoy Robb and Jeyne's happiness. She's still silent when Robb drives them home after dinner and dessert at an ice cream parlor, where Jeyne swipes Robb's nose with ice cream, and he does the same to her, and they kiss it off one another. Disgusting and cute.

"Are you just not going to ever talk to me again, then?" Willas asks, standing in front of Sansa's cabin, at the base of the stairs. Sansa glances at him, turning around slightly. "I - I don't know what I did, but I must have done something that's gotten you so upset and worked up."

"Don't you have a girlfriend to get back to?" Willas raises an eyebrow at that, climbing up the steps to meet Sansa on the porch. She looks up at him, unintimidated, or trying to seem that way. He isn't intimidating, but she isn't confrontational, either. Still, it feels like she's going to dive headfirst into a confrontation she can't avoid.

"A girlfriend?" The porch light flicks on. Margaery is awake, and probably peeking through the curtains, but Sansa can't be bothered. She's upset, and Willas is acting like he can't see why. "I don't - what?"

"Arianne."

Willas laughs again, that same, stupid laugh from a few nights ago, and her blood boils at the thought that he's laughing at her, at her feelings for him. She squints at him, fists balled at her sides. He shakes his head at her as she squints, genuine in her distress and shame.

"She isn't my girlfriend."

"Don't lie to me," Sansa protests, shaking her head. "I've seen her with you, and how you - "

"We grew up together," he explains softly. "I didn't realize... I thought, um. I thought I'd made my feelings about you clearer, Sansa, and I'm sory I upset you." He's gearing up to give her the friend talk, and Sansa can't bear hearing it. "I - "

"I get it, I'm just your friend," Sansa cut in, shaking her head as she looks down. "I just... I just thought maybe, that, you, like, I don't know. I thought I wasn't the only one who felt this way, but I do and I - it's okay. We can just be friends. I'm really sorry if I made things weird, or awkward - "

"You're not just my friend, Sansa," Willas says gently. He meets her glance and gives her that soft smile. His smile, soft, gentle, like everything else about him. "I... I don't think you've been listening to me, lately. Arianne is my friend, and she's always been my friend, and we'll always be friends." Sansa wipes her face angrily, hating the hot tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, Sansa." He dabs at her face with one of his surely monogrammed handkerchiefs, shushing her softly. "It's alright."

"It's not," she says, face pressed against his chest when he envelops her in a warm hug. "You - you look so happy - "

"She doesn't - I'm not very much her type," Willas teases, hand carding through Sansa's hair gently. "I've set my sights on someone else, anyway."

"Oh, great," Sansa says thickly, not pulling away. "Is she pretty?"

"Very."

"She's nice?"

"Yeah."

"Do I know her?"

"Very well, yes." She looks up at him with a frown, blinking in confusion. "I'm talking about you, silly girl."

That's how it happened, very simply, no fireworks, nothing magical, nothing wild. His confession is simple, and quiet, but it still manages to make Sansa feel dizzy, like she could faint in his arms. She realizes, standing there on the porch, that she's happy. She can't exactly remember the last time she was actually... happy. It's nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr! magicalgyal @ tumblr.


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